


Scarecrow

by kaurakahvi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blind Character, Body Horror, Boundaries, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Communication, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M, Monsters, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mutilation, Polyamorous Character, Post-Canon, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tenderness, The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Trust Issues, closeness, learning to live, learning to love, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28090704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaurakahvi/pseuds/kaurakahvi
Summary: Martin was almost used to what they had to do now to survive - whatJonneeded to do to survive. They sought out the monsters that plagued London, they got rid of said monsters, and Jon was fed and the world was a little brighter afterwards, or at least that's what he told himself to feel better about it. Going into The Stranger's lair was supposed to be just another one of those nights. Break in, endure a brief but intense struggle against primal fear itself, then leave the place and its inhabitants all in a smouldering heap.If only it had been that simple.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 88





	1. The Attic

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! My name is Kahvi and I really like Tim Stoker! That's it! That's my fic!!!!!!!
> 
> Written and finished by the final hiatus of S5 and Jonny left me on read when I asked him how the show ends - that unhelpful bastard - so I had to improvise. Obviously this'll be canon divergent when we get to the last episodes, but for now, let's pretend I got everything right. We've still got a couple months until I need to be embarrassed.
> 
> This fic started as a quickie before NaNoWriMo, turned _into_ my NaNoWriMo, and then continued on for some more. The raw material caps at 130 000 words. Editing will take or add as it will: we're still working on that, and as such chapters will drop as they go through my beta reader. It'll definitely be slower than my normal pace (of dumping the whole thing online within a couple days), but hopefully the quality will make up for the wait. Either way, the story is finished as it now stands, so I won't be leaving you all hanging. Promise.
> 
> Other than that, it's a wild ride, hopefully you guys will enjoy.

* * *

The apocalypse had changed things. It had changed the world, yes, but even after everything had been put back together and most people had all but forgotten (blissfully enough) that there had ever been a cataclysm at all, things were different. The food chain of the Fears was different. And at first, Jon... Jon had been different, too. Hungrier, or rather on the brink of starvation at all hours of the day - it had made him tired, forgetful, irritable and much moodier than usual, even rash when it came to decisions that Martin would have wanted to take more time for. By now, Martin was used to it when it happened. He was almost getting used to these little escapades they had now, too, where instead of _reading_ about the Fears they went about and eliminated them. Despite all the obvious murder involved in the work, it was really almost enjoyable for the main part - Jon was stronger than most things on this plane, even or especially after the Change and the... what was it called? The Switcheroo, the Change Back, the Great Undoing? The words really didn't matter. What did was that Jon had been akin to a god in that realm. Now he wasn’t, not anymore, but what he lacked in strength and power he made up in sheer passion for his craft. He knew how to kill now, and he did so, often and with relative yet almost entirely unrestrained, pleasure. The fears of other Fears fed him well enough, it seemed: sometimes after one night of slaughter he could sleep easy for a month without even having to read a statement. Not that he’d ever stop reading them or taking them - he did his work as if it had never been interrupted. He was up early in the morning, often before Martin, and even then Martin would have to beg for him to go home with him on a daily basis, as it was as if there was no end to his working hours. Sometimes Martin missed the Head Archivist of the Institute: now he had _The Archivist_ instead, who wasn’t bound back by such mortal concerns as the last bus home. Still, he loved Jon, and if that was what he had to put up with... well, he put up with it. He made breakfast for Jon in the morning and pulled him out of the archives in the evening and sometimes, like now, he took a night or a day off to skulk around in the darkness, quite literally committing murder after murder with his boyfriend for supper. 

Today’s victim of choice was the Stranger.

It had gotten awfully bold in the months past since the apocalypse. It seemed to have been made _quite_ mad by the end being cancelled, and although it wasn’t alone, it was one of those fears that Martin didn’t mind seeing done away with as quickly as possible. Unluckily enough, the Stranger had proven rather hard to track down, and now that they were here in this... what was it, exactly? A decrepit, dusty old house in plain sight guarded by a padlock that no one seemed to have a key for, which yet opened with _any_ key that was thrust into it, revealing from within a maze of workshops and endless rooms which to an unknowing eye perhaps could have summoned the impressions of a theatre backstage? A cavern of a building with stairs and steps and locked and unlocked doors to get lost in for days, like crafted by the Spiral itself? It didn’t matter. Ultimately, it was a hideout, and Jon had all the knowledge necessary for clearing it out in the most efficient manner.

Martin had just... followed him, aside from that one time he’d been set upon by a suddenly very lively wooden doll the size of a small child, faceless and silent as it had began to claw at his clothes, sharp fingers reaching for his throat. That time he’d used the knife he had on him, not that it had done much beyond sticking to the head of that child-figure, and then Jon had been back with him, his eyes blazing as he forced the doll to turn for him, forced it to witness him, and left it in ashes.

It was... really quite attractive; Martin was certain he’d been blushing vividly as he’d adjusted his clothes and caught his breath before they’d moved on again, but for all the knowing that Jon had to him, at least he couldn’t see in the dark any better than Martin could and would have inevitably missed this little detail in the wake of the fight.

Still, upon entering what Martin could only assume would be the very last staircase leading up to the attic of this convoluted house of horrors, he felt like they were missing something. Yes, they’d faced some resistance, but it had all felt awfully staged - like a little puzzle leading them towards a reward. Rats in a maze.

He reached out to tug at Jon’s shirt.

”Jon, wait.”

”Mm-hm?” Jon replied, turning half-way back with one foot on a stair above the other. ”What is it?”

He sounded so casual, like this was their own attic and the house they were ascending hadn’t been full of dolls wearing human skins and... and whatever else had been there, really. Martin wanted to forget.

”This doesn’t feel right,” he said sincerely, ”It’s been - too easy. For the Stranger, I mean.”

”Maybe we’re just getting better at this, Martin.”

The light that made it through the small grimy window looking at the stairway made them both look blue. In that light, however, Jon could definitely see the look that Martin was giving him.

”I know, I know,” he sighed then, ”I’ve been thinking the same thing. Usually something has gone wrong by now.”

”While I’m glad neither of us has had any close encounters with death or - or worse, I do think that it's suspicious,” Martin agreed.

Jon nodded.

”I’ll be careful,” he promised.

”That’s all I ask.”

They climbed up the remaining stairs. There was a lock on the door, but it had the key in it - inviting, innocent and yet so obviously suspicious that they exchanged looks once more to reassure one another that they were prepared for whatever would still lurk behind this door. Martin’s skin crawled when Jon twisted the key and the door began to slide open. 

The attic was a mess of boxes and old furniture illuminated by another grimy window, this one larger and letting through a convenient amount of lighting that next mixed with the light of Martin’s torch that he aimed into the room from behind Jon’s back. Jon was tense, prepared, and in the torchlight Martin could see blood running down his arm from a cut in his sleeve. He hadn’t noticed that before. It had to have healed by now, of course, but the injury had bled enough to make him think that perhaps their mission hadn’t been _quite_ as easy at Jon had led him to believe so far. The shirt would need stitches, at the very least.

”Do you see anything?” Martin asked quietly.

Jon shook his head, taking a step inside. The floorboards creaked as they passed a pile of shoeboxes the height of a grown man. Behind it there was more furniture: old chairs, two mattresses with boxes piled on top of them, and a rocking chair elaborately set in the middle of the room. Something was huddled in it, Martin realised with a jump of terror within him; these things never grew on him, no matter how many times in his life he’d had this happen to him before. A... body, it seemed, its head resting against the back of the rocking chair, one skinny arm stretched over its lap and the other hanging down from the arm rest. Its legs were far out on the floor, leaning onto their heels. It was covered with a blanket that had settled over its shape, revealing each feature with enough precision for them to make no mistake about the nature of what would be found beneath it. On the blanket... there was something taped to it. A note.

”Jon - be careful. This is _definitely_ a set-up,” Martin breathed.

Jon nodded again.

”It’s a message,” he claimed under his breath, his voice... curious, intrigued. He motioned Martin to follow him, and together they approached the shape until they were within an arm’s reach from it. It hadn’t moved. It didn’t move even as Jon began to reach for the note on the cloth cast over it.

”What’s it say?” Martin asked as Jon pulled the note off the tape it had been hanging by and brought it up.

”’ _To the Archivist and his little pet: good on you for making it this far. As a reward for your diligence and a sign of good will from our side, please accept this humble gift of something that you once left behind. We’ve no more use of it, but perhaps you still do. Either way, the reunion should be delightful for both of us._ ’”

Jon turned the note, but the backside was empty.

”That’s _not_ good,” Martin noted. He wanted to pull Jon further away from the body but Jon wouldn’t budge - he merely leaned into Martin’s touch and then readjusted himself to ensure his footing. ”Jon, please.”

Jon handed him the note, and Martin took it, the dreadful feeling at the bottom of his stomach growing heavier as he touched it, but he knew there was nothing he could say to stop Jon from unwrapping this ”reward”. He tucked the note into his pocket and touched the knife he’d returned to his belt, ready to pull it out to fight whatever the inevitable horror beneath the old blanket would be, and the torch in his hand shook a little.

”Martin, you - you won’t want to look at this,” Jon told him, and Martin wanted to slap him for it.

”Would you just get it over with? I’m not leaving you alone, whatever it is.”

”Maybe you... maybe you should, Martin, I -”

”No, Jon. No way.”

Jon turned a pleading gaze to him, but Martin shook his head firmly.

”Will it make a difference if I tell you what it is?” Jon asked him, his hand retreating a little as if rethinking pulling down the blanket.

”No, because you’ll take it on either way. I’m not leaving you. No matter what it is, Jon.”

”I think - from what I can tell, it's... it's Tim, Martin.”

Martin blinked.

”Wh-what? No. We _buried_ Tim.”

”You buried what you found of him.”

”Oh, God, Jon, don’t say that. Don’t - don’t say that. No.”

”Besides, what does it matter?” Jon asked, his voice now impatient, ”The Stranger certainly isn’t beyond trickery.”

”You weren’t there.”

”Well, I doubt very much they held an open casket funeral for him, so I don’t see the point, Martin.”

Martin swallowed. He wanted Jon to be wrong so badly, but... when was he ever? When he asked for a third pot of coffee in a single afternoon or when he argued against a five minute egg, but other than that, the answer was... never. He was never wrong about anything.

”Thanks, I... I hate it.”

The look that Jon gave him was empathetic, but he was reaching for the blanket again, and his hand wasn’t shaking like Martin’s.

”Will you go? Please,” he said quietly, voice soft and gentle.

Martin wanted to. He was almost turning when he remembered what they were dealing with. The Stranger wouldn’t leave them a _corpse_ , no matter how familiar it would be to them. He shook his head, and the gesture was firm.

”No, Jon. There’s something else to this.”

”I know.”

”I’m tired of you knowing,” Martin let out in an exasperated voice, ”Could you please be any less cryptic? Just once?”

”I don’t - want to tell you, unless you want to know. This isn’t... you don’t have to go through this.”

”And you do?”

” _Someone_ has to, Martin.”

”Well, what are you going to do about it?” Martin asked, and Jon’s hand retreated again. 

He lowered it to his side and picked at the hem of his pocket with it instead, head lowering and gaze tracking the shapes of the feet hidden beneath the blanket in front of him.

”I’ll... deal with it,” he said quietly, ”Like the rest of this.”

”He’s...?”

”Yes. Whatever is - whatever is under there and what used to be Tim Stoker, it is... animated, reconstructed, however you’d like me to put it. And I - I owe it to him to... let him rest. So will you go, Martin, or will you stay? I don’t want to wait.”

”I know, Jon. I - just do it, alright? Just... just do it. I’m not leaving you - just in case.”

”Are you sure?”

”I’m quite sure, yes, thank you.”

Martin tried hard to swallow the bile climbing up his throat. Jon nodded at him, then stood there quietly for a moment before he finally turned back to the shape and took ahold of the blanket covering it. He let it down carefully, not quickly as Martin had anticipated, and... God, it was Tim. It really was. Scarred, with seams and stitches visible on the side of his neck and along his cheek and over the nose and forehead, but he wasn’t unrecognisable, not his _face_ anyway. His hair was tangled and messy, his head resting back against the rocking chair and he looked just as dead as he should have been, but not the kind of dead that had been so for _years_ , and when the blanket was off and he was seated there in blood-stained, ragged clothes with bare feet and hands so full of scars and those same stitched-up seams that they seemed to have been put together from next to nothing, Martin fully expected him - or what had once been him - to stir up and charge at them. 

The corpse did nothing of the sort. Jon examined it quietly for a moment before taking a step forwards.

”Jon?”

He shook his head and gestured Martin to stay back. Then he reached his hand and touched the shoulder of the dead man in front of them, and Martin’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation, yet nothing happened.

”Do you... need him to be aware of it when you do it?” he asked tensely, realising as he spoke that the bile he’d barely kept down earlier was now trying to flood his mouth with every syllable he spoke. He barely got the words out before he had to turn, his eyes closed and throat positively knotted as he forced himself not to gag.

”I need _it_ to be present.”

”And what the hell does that mean? Jon, I hate this.”

”Mm.”

Martin readjusted, and as Jon didn’t seem to be about to answer him, he rephrased his question as well.

”You’re certain that whatever _that_ is, there’s... _something_ inside it?”

”Yes. I just have to tempt it out. I can force it if I have to, but - I’d rather - I’d rather not do that.”

”So it’s just - a doll, like the rest.”

”Something like that,” Jon agreed. He reached his hand in again and ran his finger over the bony shape of Tim’s shoulder before gripping the shirt covering it. When he moved it aside, a bloodied straw was released from beneath - it stuck out from one of the seams that now made up Tim’s skin. Martin looked away. He wanted to cry. ”You can still leave, Martin.”

”No. Just get it over with.”

”Alright.”

Martin closed his eyes before relaxing his neck again. He listened to Jon mutter to himself for a moment’s time before a shudder stirred him and made him step aside; he balanced the torch on one of the boxes and went wandering about to get blood flowing back into his feet, as he felt like his toes had completely frozen from dread. The note had been right about one thing at least: the Stranger had to be absolutely delighted about the amount of sheer fear that Martin was now pouring into its waiting maws.

”Respond to me,” Jon’s voice called, now louder than before. Martin could feel his own skin tingling from the force he was exerting. He closed his eyes again and swayed. ”Come to me, servant of the Stranger. I _command_ you.”

”Jon?” Martin let out in a strained voice. ”Have you considered that maybe -”

”What?”

”Well, the Stranger is... it’s resilient to the Eye, isn’t it? Unknowable against, well - knowing.”

”Your point?

”Maybe you can’t just... pull it out like that. Maybe that’s part of the joke. If it doesn’t show up willingly, there’s nothing you can do to destroy it.”

Martin dared to glance at Jon, who seemed to mouth a curse before stepping back.

”You might be right,” he said then, frustration clear in his voice. He was quiet for a moment before he turned to face Martin instead. ”Martin, I - I hate to do this, but...”

Martin sighed.

”What? What is it,” he asked in a deflated voice.

”You were closer with Tim. I mean - he hated me.”

”He didn’t hate you.”

Martin could taste the lie on his tongue, and Jon laughed quietly.

”You’re scared,” he said then instead of addressing the obvious, ”Maybe it wants that. I’m - I’m just angry, Martin. I’m not afraid of it.”

”You’re angry an awful lot these days, Jon.”

”Now’s not the time.”

Martin shook his head.

”No, you’re right. We can talk about your anger issues later. I just - I’m stalling.”

”I know, Martin. I’m sorry. We can - we can leave.”

”No,” Martin disagreed without hesitation, ”No, it’s like you said: we owe this to him. I’m not leaving him like this. What do you need me to do?”

”Feed it, I guess,” Jon said with a discouraged shrug, ”Make it want to be here.”

Martin sighed. He took a step closer but froze with the thought of what would inevitably follow. He hated every inch he’d come closer to the corpse. He hated the thought of going any closer still. And yet... there he was, walking forwards. Finally he stood there, and his knees bent stiffly under him when he seated himself on a box next to the rocking chair. His eyes darted for Jon who nodded at him with an apologetic smile, but Martin shook his head; it had to be done. Then he turned his gaze back to Tim and forced himself to look and feel everything it sparked into life within him - the pain, the grief, the dread, the fear that told him to move away, to run, and then he focused on the latter, although he didn’t doubt for a moment that even the former were feeding the entity residing within the mutilated body of his former coworker and... friend?

His eyes stung. His breath was hitching when he reached for the straw that was poking out of Tim’s body, and although every hair on his body stood upright and stiff as he did so, he took a grip of it and pulled it out. It felt firmly stuck at first, but once the blood that had caked onto it under the skin loosened like a rotted scab, it came off easily enough and Martin pulled at it gently like removing a splinter from a child. The tears flowed down his cheeks now. He didn’t know what to do - what he was supposed to do, or how to make his fear any clearer - but the pain was so strong now that it gripped him entirely and he couldn’t hold back the choked sob that escaped him.

”Martin?” Jon called from somewhere behind him, but he shook his head.

”It’s fine, Jon.”

He refocused and forced his eyes up to Tim’s face. His breath hitched, and his palm lowered over Tim’s shoulder were the straw had been. He could feel the seam in his skin against his flesh and the way it stuck up from the smooth expanse before vanishing underneath the red, blood-stained tee.

”You didn’t deserve this,” he breathed out, unsure if Jon was close enough to hear it, and for once he hoped that he wasn’t - this was for Tim only. Not a secret, just... private, and he didn’t want anyone listening in, not even Jon. ”I’m so sorry, Tim. You already gave enough. You did enough. You did... good. This isn’t... isn’t how it was supposed to end.”

He wanted to yelp when he felt the cold body move under his touch. It was barely a shiver, and for a second he doubted he’d ever felt it but something in him told him that he had, and the question faded. Instead of turning away, he forced himself to stay - although even then he rebalanced himself so that getting away fast would be easier.

”Can you hear me?” he asked quietly, his voice desperate and distraught. Now he was _very_ sure he didn’t want Jon to listen, but there was no way that Jon would leave him more alone than he already had - it was a miracle he was standing more than a foot apart from Martin to begin with. ”Tim, if it’s you - if there’s a single part in there that’s still you - it’ll be alright, okay? We’ll end this. It’s going to be alright.”

As Martin watched, Tim’s lids cracked open; the eyes beneath were colourless and dull, even if only a mere sliver could be seen of them. Another sob escaped Martin and he was just about ready to pounce off, but he knew as well as Jon behind him that this wasn’t _enough_ \- it would be too easy for the entity to simply fade back out if he stopped giving it exactly what it wanted now, so he braced himself and held onto Tim’s shoulder even as his cloudy pupils fixed upon him.

”So you can hear me,” he breathed out shakily, ”That’s... nice. I really, really hate it. I really hate this. I - I’m so sorry. For what it did to you. For what _we_ did to you.”

A breath slid out from between Tim’s lips - Martin was _certain_ it spelled out Elias’s name.

”He’s dead,” he said instinctively. ”It’s a long story. Don’t... concern yourself with it.”

The corner of Tim’s mouth twitched and he closed his eyes again.

”Doesn’t feel... any different,” his lips spelled almost completely inaudibly.

Now Martin threw a gaze at Jon, who’d taken a step forwards, but... he was holding his hand between them, palm facing Jon to stop him. He shook his head with wide eyes and a racing heart and Jon stared at him, head tilting in an angry twitch; why not, the gesture said. Martin wanted to breathe, but he couldn’t. Instead he turned back to Tim.

”What do you mean?” he asked, the words the only exhale he could manage.

”I didn’t... ever feel it happen,” Tim replied so slowly his voice sounded like a scratched vinyl playing at an uneven speed, ”For all that talk... about how he was important. And I didn’t ever... feel him die.”

His lips were cracking - not deep enough to draw blood, if he had any in him, but the surface broke every single time he moved them.

”I hope that bastard rots in hell,” he hissed and his whole body twitched, finally causing Martin to jump backwards and stumble.

He fell into Jon’s leg, and in an instant Jon was ahead of him, half-crouched with his palm still on Martin’s shoulder and the other between him and Tim’s body like he was holding an invisible shield. For all Martin knew... maybe he was.

”Don’t!” he heard himself call out, reaching to take a hold of Jon’s outstretched arm; ”Don’t. It’s - I think - Jon, I think it’s really Tim.”

A dry, cough-like laugh escaped the body in front of them.

”You two finally figured it out?” Tim asked, his eyes blinking a few times before opening - Martin wasn’t sure if he could see through them, but it did feel like he was _watching_ them. ”Never seen... a man hold Jonathan Sims back from a stupid decision before.”

Jon snarled. His knee hit the floor and his grip of Martin grew tighter.

”Or a woman,” Tim added, shrugging one shoulder; his hand lifted and he gripped the arm rest of the chair he’d been left on. ”Does that make you lucky or just special, Martin? I wonder.”

”Lucky, thanks,” Martin breathed out with a shiver.

”Special,” Jon argued. He glanced at Martin to make sure he was alright, but he’d really done nothing else aside from falling back, and Jon seemed to determine as much in a moment, returning to face Tim instead. ”And you? What _are_ you?”

”Unlucky as hell,” Tim muttered. He lifted his other hand and gripped the chair to pull himself into a better position. ”But not _really_ because I missed out on dating the head archivist.”

”It’s nice to hear from you, too,” Jon said, but his voice was still suspicious, nearly dripping with it.

”Well, it’s good to know you two still hold beef with each other after all these years,” Martin stated exasperatedly, ”Can we all take a moment and just - take this in?”

”I’ve taken in enough,” Tim sighed, ”I haven’t felt this alive in years. Funny that it’s just because you’re about to kill me, isn’t it?”

He fixed his blind gaze onto Jon, who was now finally standing back up.

”I can do that,” Jon said, but there was hesitation in his voice now. He hadn’t expected this any more than Martin had. It seemed... the note had perhaps been more genuine than they had expected from the Stranger.

”Now, don’t be so modest, Jon,” Tim huffed, his head tilting slightly, ”You can, obviously, I don’t think it was Martin who carved your way in here, was it? No offense, Martin - I always did like you better.”

”None... taken,” Martin said slowly, exchanging looks with Jon. He knew Tim well enough to tell that he was tense - that this mattered to him one way or the other. ”We’re not here to - I mean, yeah, technically we’re here to kill you, but... we don’t have to. Right, Jon? We didn’t know you’d be here. I... _I_ don’t want to kill you.”

”Martin, you can’t tell if it’s really him. You shouldn’t trust it,” Jon pointed out, but Martin let out a tired laugh and shook his head.

”No, I can’t. But you can, and you would have called it by now.”

”I’m just... I’m just saying. I can't really - I can't tell as much as I'd want to. Not with the Stranger.”

”Point taken,” Martin promised, ”but I trust you to have my back, Jon.”

”Sweet,” Tim commented; he lifted his hand from the arm rest and shifted his fingers through his hair in a manner that brought Martin back to years before even though he’d never seen him get tangled up so quickly and in so many knots before. ”Assume nobody’s going to have my back, then? I’m kind of on my own here. It’s not a fair fight, really. Me against the antichrist of the archives and - and Martin Blackwood, the boy with the poetry.”

”I do have a knife,” Martin noted dryly.

”Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? Because I’ve got nothing. I can’t even _see_ you.”

”Is he... telling the truth?” Martin asked, his eyes flickering to Jon who nodded subtly.

”For the most part,” Jon said, ”I think he can _sense_ us - me - but that’s not the same.”

”You’ve got a knife and he can read my thoughts. Great. I’m at a big advantage here, guys; I can still make a joke.”

”We don’t have to fight,” Martin stated hurriedly. ”There’s no reason we should - is there? I mean, you’re not a threat to us, so...”

”Ask your boyfriend,” Tim replied, his voice lower now. ”He’s itching for it. I can practically smell it from here. All that... energy. You’re really full of it, you know? It’s fascinating. I knew you weren’t human before but - oh boy, Jon. It’s really something else now.”

”Look who’s talking,” Jon said, but Martin’s hand was now attached to his wrist hard enough to hurt, and he wasn’t moving.

”Do you guys _have_ to be so hostile?” Martin asked, his voice strained and pleading.

”I don’t trust the Stranger, Martin,” Jon pointed out.

”I don’t trust the Stranger either, but I’m not going to let you just kill our friend if there’s any chance in hell that - that we can avoid doing that.”

His grip tightened more, and Jon let out an unwilling grunt before relaxing somewhat. As he did, so did Martin’s fist.

”I need to be sure,” Jon said then, giving a meaningful look to Martin, who shuddered.

Behind them, the torch shimmered briefly before recovering. The batteries were running out.

”Tim?” Martin called and stepped forwards, past Jon and into the general vicinity of the rocking chair, which was now in fact swinging a little. He stopped before he was quite within arm’s reach - he couldn’t will himself to go forwards from there. It was too much. It all felt so... wrong. ”Can I... ask you a couple questions? Please?”

”Go ahead. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Give it twenty minutes at the rate you’re building me up, buttercup. Then I’ll walk right out of here. But not before then, so... let’s spend the time, shall we?”

Tim might have sounded cocky, but he didn't look the part. In fact, his tension spoke a very different story, and seeing it, Martin’s mouth bent into something of a crooked smile. He lowered himself down again, blocking Jon’s direct path to the man before them, and planted himself there on his knees.

”Okay. So... first off - what the hell happened to you? I thought... everyone thought you were... dead.”

”I guess that depends on your perspective, really,” Tim answered. ”What’s dead and what’s not? Am I alive, can something be both living and dead, or am I dead? What makes a thing dead if it isn’t the cessation of all movement and action, then? I stopped asking myself that question a while after becoming _this._ Alive, not alive doesn’t really matter when all you know is hell, surprisingly enough. And yeah, by the way, that happened to me: hell. Let’s just say I made some enemies at that wax museum. Funny how they didn’t appreciate me blowing up their fancy little ritual.”

”But why? Why didn’t they just, I don’t know, leave you dead?”

”Are you really asking the Stranger why it did something? Fuck - I don’t know, Martin. To make me miserable is the best guess I’ve got. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to spend months being stitched together, being... transformed, crafted into some kind of a half-flesh, half... I don’t even know what I am. Sawdust, straw, bone fragments, blood and skin? Plastic and wax? I’m everything. I can feel the pieces in me, how nothing fits together anymore. I don’t think anybody _cared_ what I was built out of, as long as the pain was unbearable.”

”Then how did you not die? You - you weren’t made into this first. You didn’t make a choice, did you?”

”Oh, there was a choice alright,” Tim admitted, ”Right back there at the museum. I was scared, Martin. I didn’t want to die. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t care either way but in the end... when I knew I was going to, I didn’t want it. I guess the fear is what kept me here, what kept me tied up with the bits and pieces. I guess - I was already in the Unknowing, I was all wrapped up in it, and maybe that was enough. Speaking of which, Jon doesn’t look too dead either, so it seems that I wasn’t the only survivor.”

”Jon... made his own choice,” Martin said quietly.

”Is that what made you so bright and beautiful?” Tim asked, his eyes aimed at Jon behind Martin somewhere.

”It’s a long story,” Jon said shortly. ”Not one I’m too keen on repeating here.”

”God, it really hates your guts,” Tim replied, although the words didn’t seem to be directed at them as much as they were simply spoken out loud.

”What does?” Jon asked.

”The Stranger,” Tim confirmed, ”Sheesh. It does _not_ like you at all.”

”Okay, so, why are you here?” Martin asked, trying to steer Tim’s attention back at himself.

He succeeded.

”I don’t know. They didn’t leave you a note before they left me here, did they?”

”They did,” Martin said, and Tim’s brows jumped and he let out a raw laughter.

”Wait, really? They left you a note?”

”It just says that you’re a... gift, a sign of good will,” Martin repeated from memory. ”Maybe they’re asking for a ceasefire?”

”I don’t know any more than you do,” Tim said with a shrug. "I haven't exactly been _here_ most of the time for the past - I don't know. A long time."  
His skin was regaining colour now, but the torch was flashing again. For a moment, its light went out entirely.

”Do you have spare batteries for that thing?” Jon asked.

Martin shook his head.

”Left them behind. I wasn’t thinking we’d be staying this long. It usually lasts for ages.”

”That’s what I thought. We need to go, Martin.”

”I still have my phone, and you have yours, don’t you?” Martin asked, casting a glance back at Jon. ”Either way, we have to make a decision here. I don’t want to rush it.”

”And I don’t want to be caught up here by the enemy,” Jon reminded him - he had a good point.

Martin sighed, turning back to Tim, who had a small, joyless smile on him now. His lips were still cracking from the stretch, and a little bit of blood was visible from within one of the wounds, glistening in the light.

”He can feel it, too, you know?” he said quietly, ”I know he can. The way the Stranger has marked him.”

”And you can see that, right?” Martin asked.

Tim nodded.

”Like a beacon. Never seen anything like it before. It really is something - I haven’t seen a single thing in years, and of course the first damn thing that I do see is Jon Sims. Can’t get rid of you, can I?”

”He’s not aligned with the Eye anymore,” Jon pointed out, and Martin realised he was right - Tim was blind. The Eye had no hold on him.

”Does that mean I can finally quit?” Tim asked. He straightened in his seat, sending it rocking back and forth. He’d lifted his feet off the ground and balanced them on the chair so that he wasn’t stopping it, and in the torchlight, the movement was slightly dizzying, as slow as it was.

Finally, Jon managed to smile.

”I think you already did,” he said quietly, ”with a bang.”

”Wonderful. Well, that settles it, I’m going on a vacation. Oh - unless, of course, I die tonight. Again, or however you see that particular philosophical question. So what will it be? Can I go, or will I find out quite personally what all that _light_ holds in it for me?”

”I can’t let you leave,” Jon told him in no uncertain terms.

”Jon?” Martin turned for him, his expression a mix of shock and betrayal.

”I _can’t_ let him leave, Martin. I never said I could,” Jon repeated. ”That doesn’t mean he has to die.”

”I’m quite harmless, really. Ugly as all hell I’d assume of course, but did that ever kill anybody?” Tim offered.

Jon’s fingertips shifted over Martin’s hair and he gestured for him to stand up; Martin followed him a distance away from Tim, away from the torch’s light.

”He’s not an avatar yet,” Jon spoke quietly, ”Whatever that means - but he’s on the way there. The Stranger’s mark is all over him, he could as well be speaking with its mouth. He can tell that I’m marked by the Eye and what the Stranger thinks of me. I can’t let him go. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

”Then why was he left here? Just for us to kill as a last laugh for them?”

”Maybe,” Jon said, but he was hesitating. ”He could be a sacrifice they were ready to make to threaten us, but the note makes me think otherwise.”

”Then what is it?”

”A proposal,” Jon continued.

Martin lifted his brows.

”You really think they’re offering a ceasefire?”

”What choice do they have? They have no footholds, every player on the field knows that even after what we did, the Ceaseless Watcher remains the strongest of them. As long as I’m alive, that won’t change. I can kill them, and I’ve shown them that I will hunt them down without hesitation. The Stranger has little space to negotiate if it wants to ever again hold any power in this realm. It should want a ceasefire. It should be _begging_ for it.”

”But then - what do we do?” Martin asked.

”I can’t... look into his mind the way I would be able to if this wasn’t the Stranger’s doing. But I don’t think... I don’t think he has much power yet. Maybe he can feel me strongly but I can’t even sense his presence.”

”And?”

”The Stranger may have claimed him, but he’s never been utilized. He’s never been given anything to feed on, to grow stronger from. That’s why he was so weak when we found him; beings like us fade away if we’re cut off from the fear. He was almost gone, but because I asked you to...”

”My fear of him brought him back. Alright. And?”

”It makes sense if the ones who did that to him only wanted him to suffer for what he did at the Unknowing. Turning him into one of Stranger’s own was the worst that Tim could have imagined happening after - everything - and then letting him starve, hidden away from everyone who thought he was dead the whole time; you have to give it to them, it’s creative.”

”And? Jon, you said we don’t have much time. Get to the point.”

”I’m trying,” Jon sighed, ”I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t have to kill him. I don’t _want_ to kill him.”

”Then don’t kill him! Jesus, Jon.”

”It really isn’t that easy!”

”Well, what’s the alternative?” Martin whispered, gesturing wildly around him.

Jon’s eyes glinted in the darkness as he watched Martin for a moment, each passing second softening something in him until he was no longer as feverish, as taken by the moment as he’d been before. Finally he sighed.

”We'll take him with us,” he said, ”Keep an eye on him and try to figure out what to do with him.”

Martin let out a breath.

”It’s going to be one hell of a story for our driver,” he said then, his voice breaking from held-back nerves. ”We all look like death, but he...”

”I know,” Jon replied grimly, ”I’m trying to think of another way, but... that’s what the Stranger does. It feeds on unease.”

He aimed his gaze towards Tim and considered it for a moment.

”He doesn’t look _too_ bad,” he said then, looking at Martin for reassurance.

”He looks like he went through a shredder,” Martin hissed, ”You can’t take him into an Uber like that. They’re going to call the police on us. It’s not even Halloween yet!”

”Then wrap him in the blanket and don’t show his hands. His face is - it’s fine.”

”His face is fine but he’s blind and covered in blood, Jon!”

”I know, Martin. I _know._ ”

They both stared in Tim’s direction for a moment. Then Jon turned for Martin and grimaced.

”I could just...”

”No, you couldn’t,” Martin said firmly.

”I don’t want to, but - this is insane.”

”You’re not going to _literally kill him_ because we’re having trouble figuring out how to get him home.”

Jon sighed.

”You’re right. I won’t do that. I don’t think I really could, either way, he... is still someone I care about.”

”Alright, how about this; we take the blanket, wrap him up in that, and he takes my shoes, my feet are - they’re fine, I guess, I’ll look a little stupid, but... he sits in the back with us and we act like nothing’s wrong. We _all_ act like nothing’s wrong.”

”I don’t think it’s going to get better than that.”

”And if the Uber calls the cops on us then - I guess we’re the next reason someone gets sectioned. It’s not a crime to be like us - yet, anyway. Probably should be, honestly.”

”I’m rather certain arson is still a crime, Martin, and if we get pulled over for Tim -”

”I’m _trying_ , Jon, I really am,” Martin breathed out in exasperation.

Tim cleared his throat.

”I’m starting to feel really left out here while you two debate on my life in there,” he said in a voice that was much stronger than the one he’d spoken with before. ”It’s - really rather lonely in here, aside from, you know, Jon glowing like a star across the room. At least I know you’re still _in_ here.”

”Sorry,” Martin called out before turning a pleading look to Jon. ”What do we do?”

”I... guess you’re calling a car,” Jon shrugged, ”I’ll take him downstairs.”

”You don’t trust him.”

”No. I don’t.”

”Well, he doesn’t really trust you either, Jon,” Martin argued, ”Let me take him. Stay with us if you have to. You can just... the app works just fine from inside here, really, you don’t have to leave us for it.”

Their eyes met and for a while there was an inaudible battle fought between them, at the end of which Jon retreated in defeat.

”We’ll have to walk some distance,” he said, ”We can’t really be picked up here or it’ll make people curious.”

”I know. We’ll work it out.”


	2. Respite

* * *

  
”So, what’s my fate, Mr. and Mr. Executioner?”

Maybe it all sounded effortless. Maybe the way he was screaming in pain and terror inside his head didn’t convey outwardly, didn’t show from his face, or maybe he had little face to show it from, but inside... inside Tim was darkness, swirling darkness mixed with the deep crimson of agony, and he wanted to reach out his hands and find the people he was talking to. Instead of vision, of familiar faces he had the unyielding brightness of terror in front of him, fading in and out like a flickering satellite in the night sky, and Martin’s voice which at least bore some comfort to him: he held onto it, looked for it every time a word was spoken. Jon’s voice was distorted in his ears - he could hear _fear_ in its background, like a constant static noise that never went away as long as he was making a sound. Martin’s voice was human, and his words fed Tim like warm milk.

”You’ll come with us,” Jon’s voice and a thousand screaming souls spoke at once. ”If that’s what you want to do.”

Tim shouldn’t have felt relief at that. He shouldn’t have desired this existence or a continuation of all this suffering, but the alternative was ever so much worse than the devil he already knew. Then Martin was there, close enough for the air to move between them.

”I’ll help you to the car,” he said, and his voice was soothing and friendly. ”We’ll have to walk a little. Do you feel... do you think you can make it?”

”I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to see, don’t we?” Tim replied with a chuckle that echoed the way he hadn’t used his voice for laughter for a lifetime. Truth was, he was afraid of what would happen next. Of course, they could both be lying - he could be led somewhere for slaughter, though it really didn’t matter too much if it was so, as he’d rather walk into his death blind than be aware of it approaching either way. Yet more than that he feared what would happen if that wasn’t the case. When had he last been human? Could he still pretend to be one, even remember what it might have felt like? What if this _strangeness_ within him would leak out the moment someone as much as touched him - what if he couldn’t control it?

Then Martin’s hand was there. It tried to land on his hand, then withdrew quickly enough that Tim had no chance to react to it, but nevertheless he could feel the rejuvenating fear flowing into him like nectar, and he drank it up with a flash of pleasure rushing into his head where it lingered for a while before Martin had pulled himself back together. This time, his hand landed over Tim’s arm, and his fingers made their way around to support him should he wish to try to land on his feet. He did try, but the first attempt failed miserably with his knees buckling at the very implication of weight placed upon them.

”Whoa, okay, not that fast,” Martin muttered, his other hand now firmly under Tim’s arm and the other still gripping him the same as before. ”Come on. Let’s try this again.”

With some serious help from Martin, Tim managed to pull himself up and stay on his feet. He wrapped his arms around his body and tried to steady the dizziness that flooded him when Martin left his side, but the man returned soon enough to wrap a blanket over his shoulders. It was long and felt cold to touch and smelled pungently of the attic they were in, but Tim didn’t need to be told twice to hug it around his body. It felt comforting.

”How do I look?” he asked in a voice he hoped was at least a little more teasing than it sounded inside his head.

”Like a ghost. A sheet ghost, but with a human head.”

”Great. That’s just what I wanted to be for Halloween.”

”Well, you’re not _too_ early - it’s still two weeks out, really. Tim...”

”Yeah? I _think_ that’s me.”

”Does it - hurt you when I touch your hand?” Martin asked.

Then he did, carefully, just barely enough for Tim to feel it at all. The truth was, existing itself hurt, and if there was pain from the contact it didn’t feel much different to the usual, but whatever had changed in him since the wax museum hadn’t taken enough out of him to not crave that touch, the gentle, questioning slip of a finger against his hand, and the fulfillment of this most basic of human needs of being close to another won over whatever pain it might have caused him, so he shook his head.

”Do you think we’ll fall down the stairs if I try to lead you out of the room by it?” Martin continued, his voice slightly relieved. ”I just - I figured you can’t see, so...”

”No, I’d really like some help here, thanks. I won’t find the door today if you leave me here on my own.”

”It really isn’t made any better by the fact that there are like... at least a thousand rooms in this house,” Martin sighed, ”I don’t think I could find my way out before noon if it wasn’t for Jon.”

”Is it one of those things that’s bigger from the inside than it looks on the outside?” Tim asked, though his entire focus was on Martin’s hand carefully joining with his and tugging him forwards. It did burn, but only somewhat; he could deal with it, even tune it out entirely.

”I’d have thought you’d know, since, well, you were here first,” Martin said as they made their way through the room so slowly that it felt like they were barely moving at all, ”But I guess you don’t know much more about it than we do. No, it’s... I think we’re torching it once we’re out. I think that’s the safest thing to do.”

”Ah, I always knew you had a little pyromaniac in you somewhere. Wish I could see the fireworks.”

”We can light the fireplace for you once we’re home,” Martin offered.

They were entering a stairway now. It creaked under their feet.

”The way you’re phrasing that implies you live together with your boss. Isn’t that a little immoral?” Tim asked, the corner of his mouth climbing up with genuine amusement.

”Oh, shut it.”

”Missed me, didn’t you?”

Martin sighed. He was quiet for a while but it was hard to decide whether it was because he was trying to safely navigate them down the stairs or because the subject was painful for him to consider. Finally they landed on the floor below and Tim could see Jon’s fascinatingly _dark_ light shining through the doorway.

”I really did, you know?” Martin finally said as Jon vanished from sight once again. ”I really did miss you.”

”Aw, that’s sweet.”

”You died, Tim. I didn’t like that very much. And with Jon in a coma - I don’t know. It was a bad year, and... well, it only got worse from there, really. Do you know about that? About the Change and all.”

”Not a thing. No idea what you’re talking about, actually,” Tim stated, giving his best act of his usual confidence as he spoke. The truth was, he was exhausted inside - the swirling was growing heavier, darker, and it was eating even the crimson that he felt in flashes. Instead, there was a growing numbness within him that threatened his consciousness.

”Well, _that_ is a story for another night,” Martin said and for the time being his voice sounded exactly as tired as Tim felt. ”Jon can tell it to you. He remembers most of it better than I do. And, well, we’ve got the tapes if you’re curious.”

Something hard collided with the floor.

”Goddamnit...” Martin muttered.

Jon flashed into view again - or a part of him did, as his glow faded behind an obstacle of some kind.

”Everything alright?” he asked, and his voice hurt Tim’s ears.

”Yeah, yeah, I just - dropped the torch,” Martin informed him, and Tim could feel him bending down beside him. ”Everything’s fine, Jon.”

”If you say so. The car’s on the way.”

”Good, well, we’ll be there next week. Can you go catch it, please?” Martin pleaded.

Jon was quiet for some time.

”I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” Tim told him quite unhelpfully, as he knew very well that he was the threat that Jon was still considering. Martin elbowed him gently in the side.

”Fine,” Jon said after a long pause. ”I’ll wait with the car. If something happens -”

”I’ll stab Tim in the face,” Martin promised, and Tim let out a sound of disagreement.

”Alright. Make it good, Martin. I...”

”I love you?” Martin offered.

”I love you too. Be careful.”

”Yes, Jon. Please, be gone already.”

And with that, the glow disappeared.

”Wow, you’re really not joking about it, are you?” Tim asked.

”About what? That I love him?”

”No - yes, I mean - you’ve really got him good. I can’t believe it. He _listens_ to you. The Jon Sims I knew never listened to anybody. Hey, you know, the Jon I knew _actually stalked me to my house thinking I was a murderer_ because he didn't want to listen to anybody whatsoever _._ ”

”I guess not that many things have changed, huh?” Martin sighed, ”He did only leave once I promised to stab you in the face.”

”I don’t think my face can take another beating, Martin.”

”It looks fine. You’re...”

”Don’t lie to me,” Tim chuckled wearily. They were now entering the second stairway. ”Do you think we’ll find our way out of here without him?”

”We’re not too far anymore. It feels shorter now that all the weirdness is gone, if I’m honest with you,” Martin said. ”Actually, I think it might be - we’ve just gone a straight path this whole time. Down the same corridor. This looks like a house now, not a maze.”

”I wish I could contribute, I really do.”

Martin huffed warmly. They climbed down the flight of stairs and landed in a drafty room - there had to be a door open somewhere because the air smelled crisp and cold and fresh, nothing like the dusty air of the house itself. Tim hugged the blanket closer to his body with the hand that still held onto it and followed Martin to what appeared to be the main door’s frame. Outside it, he could hear rain.

”Martin, may I have a moment of honesty and nothing but honesty?” Tim asked, his hand parting from Martin’s to tug at the blanket around him even as he let his body collapse against the doorway. He could feel the door itself give way beside him, and it hit a door stopper somewhere on the porch.

”You may,” Martin agreed, but he sounded hesitant.

Tim took a deep breath and let the silence linger. Then, finally, he spoke: ”Do you think I can charm us out of paying?” 

Martin sighed sharply, and Tim could almost hear him roll his eyes.

”God, of course. Yes! Yes, if you shut up and don’t say another word, you most certainly can.”

”Is the driver a lady or a gentleman or something else entirely? I need to know, it affects the subtle science.”

”The subtle science...” Martin repeated, picking up his hand and pulling him out of the doorway. 

There was a lingering, sharp smell of gasoline about the house, and when they stopped, Tim could hear Martin strike a match.

”Come on,” Martin spoke quietly as the hissing faded, ”We have to get out of here before anyone notices the smoke, and it’s going to make a _lot_ of smoke in a weather like this.”

”Do you do this kind of thing often?” Tim asked.

”Fairly, I guess.”

”Is it like, is it a kinky thing for you guys?”

”No, it’s more like grocery shopping, if I’m honest with you. Or maybe visiting a restaurant.”

”Ah. Nothing beats a nice, romantic massacre with a little house-burning. Charming. Wonderful.”

”I mean it literally, Tim, it’s just what we do to eat.”

The rain was getting heavier.

”Oh, fuck,” Martin said suddenly; ”I forgot to - I’m sorry. Do you want my shoes? I can walk without them.”

Tim dug his toes into the pavement.

”It’s really feeling rather nice to be walking in the rain,” he said, ”besides, I don’t think your shoes will fit me. I have _ginormous_ feet.”

”I’m bigger than you.”

”Is that a flirt or an invitation? Both?”

”Tim, I _do_ still have a knife, and your face is looking like a really good target right now.”

”I’m sure Jon would like to hear that. Or see it. But like I said... it’s my best asset and I’d rather not...”

”Actually, you are absolutely insufferable.” Martin’s voice was amused.

The truth was, Tim didn’t want to stop while he was still moving. Martin wasn’t feeding him anymore - his fear had faded into the background and then diminished to a point where Tim could barely feel it, and while he didn’t know what he’d used it for, very little of it now remained. The dizziness, the whispers in his ears that he could barely hear but which would never quite quiet down, the swirling void within him... they were growing, calling him back to a state where he neither felt nor thought anymore, in which he was as good as dead, and had perhaps thought that he was so already. He dreaded that state. He didn’t want to go back in it. What if this time he wouldn’t wake up again? Worse yet, what if the next place he _would_ wake up in was worse than this one, without the familiar voices, the security of a hand holding his own? He wanted to sleep. Just... sleep.

”Are we there yet?”

”Not quite. Almost. I can see them. Jon’s smoking. I don’t like it when he smokes.”

”I think you don’t need to worry about it hurting him anymore, Martin, if I’m quite honest with you.”

”I’m not worried about him hurting himself with it. I know it won’t do anything to him. I just... I just don’t like it, that’s all. It makes him smell bad and - and I don’t like it. He only does it when he’s stressed.”

”Am I stressing him out?”

One step at a time. Martin sighed.

”I guess? I mean, this has been a night.”

”One amongst many, I’m sure. Can’t wait to hear about them. But speaking of smelling bad - I can’t imagine I’m doing well on that scale.”

They stopped.

”You know what? I didn’t think about that until now,” Martin said. The rain was bringing Tim’s hair down on his forehead and sticking it to his skin, and droplets ran down those lines like paths, turning into little streams while Martin did what Tim assumed was nothing but watching him. Maybe sniffing. That just sounded too weird for him to think about, so he discarded the thought. ”Funny.”

”What’s funny?”

”You don’t really smell like anything. Maybe... copper? From the blood? But not like, not like _old_ blood, just... metallic. And the blanket smells of the attic.”

”Are you _actually_ smelling me, Martin?”

”Well - we’re about to go into a car, so... you know. I had to check.”

They moved again.

”So you _were_ smelling me. Man, that’s weird. A gentleman should ask a fine thing like myself first before doing that.”

”Will you ever shut up, Tim?”

”To be fair, I haven’t opened my mouth in - what, several years now? So no, I don’t think I will, thank you very much.”  
The truth was, Tim was afraid of the moment he'd stop saying whatever popped into his head first. It gave too much space for doubt, for the lingering dread, and for the _pain_ above all other things; he didn't dare stop speaking, no matter what kind of nonsense it was that he was spewing, because the second he was quiet, the agony took over again.

”Alright, acceptable. But just barely. You’re on thin ice.”

Jon’s dark, shimmering light began to emerge through the nothingness in Tim’s horizon. He gathered the last of his willpower to head for it, as little as he wanted to; Jon’s presence was making him feel worse than the days back at the archives ever had, like there was a giant eye hyperfocusing upon him at all times. He wondered if Martin felt it too and if so, whether he could get used to it like Martin evidently had. On a second thought, however, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to grow used to it. It made his body prickle and sting like pins and needles underneath his skin.

”Martin?” the shrieking, howling voice asked them.

”Everything’s fine, Jon. We’re just a little wet, is all. Tim - I’m going to help you in, alright? You’ll sit in the back by the window.”

”Alright, time to hit my head really hard,” Tim sighed. He couldn’t feel his way around the doorway into the backseat without letting go of his blanket and he had a feeling he’d been given it for a good reason, so he held onto it for dear life even as Martin guided him through and somehow, together they got him inside without incident. 

Once he was seated - and seatbelted, which just felt ridiculous over the blanket and Tim would have told them exactly that had he just been asked about it - he could hear Martin audibly sigh in relief.

”Okay, I’ll take the middle seat. Jon’s ego won’t fit in a small space like that anyway and if it’s bigger than me, well, you know it’s large.”

Tim rested his head back. He felt his eyes closing, not that he’d ever to his knowledge fully opened them to begin with, but it was a habit just like looking around was even though he couldn’t perceive anything else than Jon’s black star in his environment. Martin squeezed between them on the backseat and chatted away with the driver while the world faded from Tim’s mind - he felt the car moving, turning, speeding and breaking, and once he could hear the firetrucks passing them by, but that was all he recalled from the route to their destination once they were finally there.

”Ah, London and rain,” he muttered as he poked his head out of the car.

He could barely hold himself upright now.

”Okay,” Martin spoke quietly somewhere beside him, his fingers crawling to the center of Tim’s half-fist and undoing it to take his hand, ”Just up the steps now and we’re home.”

The blanket fell off him where the others left their shoes, and he stumbled forwards with no sense of direction until his legs gave in. To his surprise it was Jon who knelt beside him, with Martin staying back to close and lock the door; Jon’s touch was like electricity running through his skin, piercing it repeatedly like dawn breaking apart the night. It took him a moment to realise that Jon had pulled his arm around his shoulders and he was standing again with Jon partially carrying him further in, but he was moving, his feet barely in contact with the ground before he was brought down onto a well-cushioned couch.

”Is he alright?” Martin asked.

”Exhausted,” Jon replied. His voice didn’t have the same dreadful ring to it now. Maybe Tim’s ears were just too damn tired to pick up the screaming of the damned. ”He used a lot of what you gave him to fix the damage to his body. He’ll be alright, I think, but we’ll have to find a way to keep him fed. We can think about that later.”

”He’ll be okay?”

”He’ll be fine, Martin. He can stay down here for tonight, I don’t think it’s necessary to move him anywhere. Let him sleep.”

”Alright. Jon, I’m - I’m taking a shower. Could you dig out some of my clothes for him to change into when he’s, you know, conscious? We need to get rid of everything he’s wearing right now. Oh and - your shirt, it needs a washing and I want to patch it later. Not tonight. I really don’t care about patching anything tonight, I want to get in bed.”

Tim wanted to tell them he was still conscious, but just like that, he wasn’t anymore.  
  


* * *

  
Martin’s hand moved over Jon’s chest. Through the thin tee he was wearing, the touch was comforting and warm, and even though he was watching the rain on the window he could feel Martin’s gaze on him.

”Talk to me, Jon,” Martin said.

”What do you want me to say?” Jon asked, reaching up to scratch at the tip of his nose before placing his hand on top of Martin’s. Underneath his palm, he could feel his fingers moving ever so slowly up and down his skin.

”Did you get enough tonight? Are we good?”

Jon nodded.

”I’m turning into a snake,” he said slowly, ”I feed once a month and hibernate the rest of the time.”

”You literally never properly sleep, Jon.”

”I do sleep,” Jon replied, slightly offended, ”It doesn’t mean I stop seeing. What I mean is - I feel purposeless, Martin. Yes, I’m still the Archivist. Yes, I’m still employed and yes, I have you to look after. But compared to everything that came before... it doesn’t feel right.”

”I can’t believe you’re complaining about the lack of an apocalypse right now,” Martin wisely pointed out.

Jon sighed and turned to look at him, at his eyes that were so keen upon his, that saw things in him that he’d never seen in himself before Martin had pointed them out. He moved closer until their faces were touching and he could close his eyes and simply feel Martin breathing on him, and his breath smelled faintly of mint and his face of the cream he’d used to treat the irritation from a close shave.

”Maybe you should write a book,” Martin said then, speaking the words directly onto Jon’s lips before sealing them with a kiss, perhaps in the fear that Jon would throw them back at him or laugh.

”A book?” he replied in a tone of sleepy incredulity.

”I don’t know, steal someone’s nightmares and make them into a horror novel. I’m sure at least one person will be offended that they can’t sue you for literally plagiarizing their subconsciousness,” Martin said, and Jon chuckled, shaking his head.

”I don’t think that’s the kind of a purpose I’m looking for.”

”I know,” Martin sighed, turning on his back, ”I know. But I can’t give you one, now can I? I can’t make up a ritual - I mean, even if rituals still worked and maybe they do, maybe they don’t, the Lonely’s not due for another century. Besides, it’ll fail anyway. What would even be the point?”

”One of us has to stay home tomorrow,” Jon said, his words so completely unrelated to anything that Martin had just said that it took him a good long moment to catch up with his train of thought.

”Wh-... oh, Tim.”

”Yes, Tim. The monster sleeping on our sofa downstairs.”

”Right. Well, no offense, Jon, but I think the actual Archive needs to be present at the place called ’the archives’ as much as possible - we both know how it ends when you don’t go.”

”I know. I just... I don’t like the thought of leaving you alone with the Stranger.”

”You’re not leaving me alone with the Stranger,” Martin said, and Jon wanted to hold him, so he did - he brought his arm around him and pulled him closer, closer until they were chest to chest, and he breathed him in and closed his eyes again. ”Jon?”

”Mm?”

”It’s still Tim. The same way you’re still Jon, I think.”

”You _know_ that if it came to that, I’d never leave you alone with myself either.”

”You’re weird, Jon.”

”No, I’m a realist,” Jon argued, ”You can say that about any of the avatars, any of the monsters we’ve killed, any that killed the ones we loved - they’re the same people they once were, and yet... they’re not, and will never be again.”

”Not the question of the self again, Jon, I’m too tired for an existential crisis. Am I me? Am I somebody else? Are you really you? All that matters to me, Jon, is that I love you, and I know who you are, and I trust you. And luckily, you never really got a choice in whether you’d like to trust me alone with you or not, because here I am anyway. Literally in your bed right now.”

A smile crept on Jon’s face - he couldn’t stop it. With a heavy, slow movement he climbed on top of Martin and held him by the wrist on one side, his other hand leaning into the mattress as he kissed him. Martin’s arm wrapped around his body and he was held close, their bodies coming together slowly as Jon nuzzled his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. He liked the way it felt there, he liked the sensation that being physically smaller than Martin gave him. For once in his life, he didn’t feel entirely in control, and he most certainly did not feel all-powerful or even all-seeing. He didn’t know what Martin was thinking. He’d trained himself not to look so well that sometimes he wondered if he even knew how to turn that setting back on if he had to.

That gave him an idea.

”Martin?” he muttered into Martin’s shoulder before retreating ever so slightly back off him.

”Yes? We really need to sleep, Jon.”

”I know. Martin, can I - if I go to work tomorrow, would you let me _see_ you while I’m gone? Just to know where you are, that you’re safe.”

Their eyes met, and Martin frowned; he watched Jon for a moment and in that moment all the years they’d spent avoiding Jon knowing anything about him were somehow separating them at this question. Then, finally, he nodded.

”Yes,” Martin agreed, ”You can keep an eye on me if you go and I stay. Just don’t... see anything unnecessary.”

”I promise, Martin,” Jon said, ”Nothing but your location and the way you’re feeling.”

”I might be feeling some really weird things, Jon. My dead friend is sleeping in our living room. And don’t come charging in if I freak out for a split second either, alright?” Martin sighed. ”I might have spilled my tea or something.”

”I promise not to act like an idiot.”

”Do you, though?” Martin pressed.

Jon considered it.

”No,” he said then, defeatedly, ”but I’ll try my best.”

”That’s more like it.”

Jon let his body collapse back on his side of the bed but stayed close to Martin regardless, lifting his head to rest over the other man’s arm. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of his beloved breathing beside him, his warmth and the incredible sense of safety that always overcame him when they were together like this. Even in their worst hours, being close to Martin had made the pain and the fear fade into the background.  
  


* * *

  
The house felt strange without Jon in it. Martin had watched him leave through the window, but he was gone soon; he walked faster than he realised, often so that Martin had difficulties keeping up with him. After that there was... silence, silence and the rain that was still tapping at the windows and the roof. Martin made himself a cup of tea, but when he came to pick it up he realised he’d made two out of a habit: one was just sitting there, the bag seeping in water and releasing dark, reddish brown into the water. Martin watched it while sipping from his own cup, how the tea swirled into the steaming liquid, slowly overflavouring it. He closed his eyes, and lifted one hand from his cup to wrap around the other one instead. He brought it over to where the milk was still sitting and mixed in some sugar. Tim had always liked his tea sweet like Martin did, hadn’t he? It was so long ago - that memory felt more distant now than the years should have allowed.

The sound of rain was always stronger in the living room. It was made louder by the open space they’d left in the middle, yet Martin would have expected that their combined books would have at least muffled the sound, and yet there it was - like a shower running in the same room. He’d avoided going there the whole morning, telling himself he was too clumsy to risk waking Tim, but the truth was that he was scared. Of what, he wasn’t entirely certain, but Jon hadn’t asked him questions when he’d made his excuses and simply checked on their guest himself before leaving, and he’d said nothing of the matter so Martin had left it unspoken. Now he was there, hanging about in the doorway, and Tim’s blanket had slid off his body all the way down to his knees, revealing from beneath the blood-soaked, dirty clothes that he’d been wearing the day before. Something was off, however, and at first Martin couldn’t place his finger on it so he concluded it just had to be one of the things he’d have to grow used to - that was what Stranger did, wasn’t it? Made people feel _off_ , made it so that you couldn’t ever point your finger at the flaws but just the same could never escape the feeling that something was horribly wrong. But this wasn’t one of those feelings, he didn’t feel that kind of dread that he’d grown to associate with the presence of the fears. He just felt strange anticipation and worry when he sat down there. The smell of copper was stronger now, perhaps brought to a starker contrast against the familiar, safe scent of his own home, but it wasn’t that either which was making him uncomfortable. And then, just as he was placing the cups of tea on the low table, his eyes turned for Tim’s fingers lightly fisted up to just barely touch the scruff on his jaw, and he realised there wasn’t a scar on them at all. They certainly weren’t torn up like they’d been the night before, and no bloodied straws were poking out of his body, out of the seams that now were nowhere to be seen. He looked whole again - was that what Jon had meant when he’d mentioned healing?

Martin laid his hand on top of Tim’s shoulder and shook him ever so slightly.

”Tim? I’m sorry for waking you up so early but I - I accidentally made more tea than I needed,” he said in a mumble.

A light frown crossed Tim’s face, then smoothed out. In a few moments it returned, but when Tim’s eyes flickered open, Martin could feel his stomach drop at the sight of the now-familiar, dull grey of them. He tried to smile anyway, not that it made much of a difference, yet he couldn’t not do it; it wouldn’t have been kind if he hadn’t, and he wanted to be kind. He could spare that now. He had the time for it.

”Did I hear that right?” Tim muttered, his eyes closing again. ”Martin Blackwood made more tea than he needed? Who are you, and what have you done to - oh, wait, that’s your line now.”

A satisfied little smirk passed his lips and he curled up tighter, his knees hitting Martin where he’d settled on the very edge of the sofa.

”I made it the way you liked it,” Martin offered clumsily.

Tim lifted a brow.

”You remember how I liked my tea way back when? Wow. Must have been a highlight of your career.”

Martin sighed.  
”Dream on,” he said wearily.

”Yeah, I wish. I’m tired as hell. Where’s that tea I was promised?”

Martin picked up the cup and placed it in Tim’s hands, his eyes resting for a long time on the smooth skin on them. There wasn’t a flaw left in sight... at least not aside from the little pockmark scars he’d had since Jane Prentiss had marked him, the same as Jon. Unthinking, Martin had reached out a finger to touch one on his arm; he never thought about touching Jon’s, and Jon was used to him feeling them out, it never bothered him anymore. But this wasn’t Jon, so when he realised what he was doing, Martin jumped a little and made a very quick grasp for his tea, blushing heavily out of embarrasment.

”Can I ask you...” he started, his voice cracking and fading away.

Tim was picking himself up - Martin could see him shaking as he did so, but he seemed altogether in a much better shape than when they’d arrived last night. He settled his back between the back rest and the arm rest of the sofa and made himself cozy there before nesting the warm cup on his lap in the middle.

”Are you going to finish that sentence? No, you can’t ask me, _obviously._ I’m staying here rent-free, drinking your tea and enjoying the warmth of your house, and I refuse to answer _any_ questions.”

Martin chuckled with a crooked smile. He sipped his tea, relieved that Tim didn’t seem to be making a big deal out of his uninvited touching.

”You look... different,” he started, ”You look like you today.”

”Is that a nice way of saying I looked like shit yesterday? Because I felt like shit, tell you what.”

”Is it better now?”

Tim shrugged. He sipped his tea and tilted his head towards the sound of rain, his eyes just barely open with his lashes still tangled up in each other. His hair was an even worse mess than it had been when they’d found him - Martin blamed that on it getting wet and having never dried before he’d fallen asleep there.

”I don’t know. Does it looking better mean that it’s actually better?” Tim asked.

”Well, last night you told us you felt like you were made of... different pieces, pieces that didn’t fit together. Do you - do you still feel like that?” Martin asked.

Tim nodded slowly. He drowned the following pause into his cup and kept sipping it repeatedly despite the fact that the tea still had to be scaldingly hot - it seemed that he was stalling much more than he was enjoying his unrequested drink.

”I think I can turn it off,” he said then, ”the way I look now, I mean. I think I just wasn’t strong enough to do it before, so you saw what I really look like - what I really am. I don’t want to test the theory, though, sorry.”

”No, it’s... it’s quite fine, really, I don’t want you wasting your powers on nonsense. We don’t really know how to get you more, so... this is what you need to deal with until then.”

”Sheesh. It really sounds like I've been adopted.”

”Well, Jon really doesn’t want you roaming out there as you like, so... get used to it,” Martin stated.

”Hey, remember when I wanted to quit my job? Yeah, it was so that Jon wouldn’t be my boss anymore. I got rid of Elias and it sure looks like I did quit my job, too, but guess what? Jon’s still here, telling me what to do. Some things just never change, do they?”

Martin sighed, and so did Tim; they were looking into different directions for quite some time before Martin remembered what he’d been meaning to ask before.

”You still have the scars from that time when Prentiss attacked us in the archives - but the others are gone.”

Tim balanced his cup between his legs and his stomach and ran his fingertips over his arms, then his jaw and neck, his expression vague with a hint of a frown in it. Then his fingers reached for his right ear and he rubbed the earlobe between his thumb and his index finger for a moment before releasing it with another shrug.

”Guess I subconsciously decided which scars I like and which scars I don’t,” he said then. ”What things make me look like myself. I can’t really tell you more than that, I’ve been asleep this whole time since... whenever I passed out last night.”

”What about... oh, I feel like an arse for asking.”

”Go ahead, I’m waiting.”

Tim wrapped his hands around his cup again and took it to his lips; he could now take longer sips of it, and Martin’s own had cooled down a significant degree since he’d started drinking it, too.

”Your eyes haven’t changed,” he pointed out.

Tim ran his now warm fingertips over his eye on one side and tilted his head.

”No spare parts there, I’m afraid. Guess those who worked on me thought I didn’t need to see to pay for my sins. They never took the old ones out, never put anything new in, and... I’m not too excited to try it at home, either.”

”Ew.”

”You asked.” Tim let out a dry chuckle and sipped his tea again. He was drinking it faster than Martin was finishing his own. ”I remember most things they put in, you know? Because I felt everything they took out. Some things they put back different or replaced. Some things I guess I didn’t need anymore.”

”I’m... I’m sorry.”

”What, did you do that to me?”

”No, I just - that sounds awful.”

Tim nodded.

”It was. It really was. I owe you one for getting me out of there. Though... well, I don’t really know what I am now. I think you two know more than I do, actually. I know I’m not human, but that’s - that’s about it, and it doesn’t help that I can’t _see_ myself. I needed you to point out that I look _better_ now before I realised that I’d done anything to change myself. I didn’t know.”

”Can you do other things?” Martin asked.

”Last night, I was afraid I’d do something to anyone who touched me - that I’d... change their reality the way Orsinov did at the museum. Maybe it was crazy, I don’t know, I... I’ve never done anything as far as I know aside from - well, _this_ , but I think I can't just change the way people see me but maybe also the way they see others around them. I think I can affect the world around me somehow. I’m just... not sure how. It’s just a feeling, a - a fear, a fear that I’ll do it without intending to, that I’ll become one of _them_ without having a choice.”

Martin lowered his cup and crossed his fingers over its side.

”You already made that choice,” he said quietly, ”I don’t think they’ll be asking again. What you do now just depends on you.”

”You’d think I’d have this figured out by now,” Tim laughed, his voice void of any emotion. ”But no, I spent most of my time locked away in a box. I’m not joking, either, it was a literal box as far as I could tell; they’d only take me out to toy with me. A pretty sad way to spend however many years I’ve been gone. At some point I just... I guess I just fell asleep and didn’t wake up again.”

”It's been four years,” Martin grimaced. ”Jon said - he said you were the way we found you because you hadn’t had any fear fed into you, that that’s what happens to avatars and... and others who get disconnected or can’t feed anymore. But wouldn’t keeping you like that just hurt the Stranger itself?”

”Four years? Jesus. Well, I _hope_ whatever they did to me hurt the Stranger, too. I guess it didn’t matter either way,” Tim said coldly, ”I’d fucked up bad enough that the only thing that really mattered to it was my punishment, more than it cared about wasting its powers on revenge.”

”The Fears don’t usually think like that.”

”Maybe it was someone else’s plan, then,” Tim offered, ”There’s other agents of the Stranger out there that I know very, very well by voice and touch and would like to get my hands on one day to pay them back for their kindness. Maybe one of them thought it up, got really angry that their pretty little plan was done away with, or that big boss Orsinov wasn’t around anymore thanks to me. That doesn’t really matter anymore either though, does it?”

Martin emptied his cup, determined to finish it before Tim did. He wasn’t sure what to say - Tim was right that the details weren’t really important, what had happened had happened and nothing would change it, but he was still curious about the plan behind it, about what had led to Tim now sitting here with a cup of tea in hand instead of being still locked away in some box out there, slowly withering away.

”What was that about the Change?” Tim asked then, pulling Martin back into the present.

”I... guess you’d be better off knowing, wouldn’t you? And Jon’s not here, so it seems to be on me to give you the basics,” Martin sighed. ”The short and sweet of it is that, well, Elias ended the world. I know, I know, that doesn’t make any sense -”

”Quite the contrary, I feel that’s perfectly in-character for Elias,” Tim cut him off with a low growl.

Martin had to agree.

”Anyway... it was a bad time for everybody. A lot of people died. A lot of people who didn’t need to die, who didn’t deserve it, died. And literally everyone - every single person on the planet - has collective trauma that they now don’t remember. It comes out every now and then... it’s like it’s just underneath there somewhere, inaccessible but still present. I don’t want to think of the long-term consequences, really. I don’t think anyone wants to. I think... we all just want to move on from that.”

”That really does sound like the short and the sweet of it,” Tim noted, ”Glad I missed out on the actual apocalypse. You’re leaving something out, though. How did it end? How do you end the end?”

Martin rubbed at his temple.

”A lot of walking, really. A lot of... witnessing. I guess that’s what the Eye wanted. It wanted to see, it wanted to record everything. I don’t - it hurt, Tim. A lot. And I don’t think I got the worst of it.”

”Curious how you haven’t mentioned Jon once in this story. Could it be that you’re hiding something from me? I don’t think Mr. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, the megamonster of our little company, was somehow spared from participation. In fact, the way I remember Jon's rapid descent - I bet he played a big part in this all going down.”

”I don’t want you to hold _that_ against him,” Martin bristled, ”Elias... _Jonah_ did that. Jon sacrificed a lot putting it all back together. I don’t want _anyone_ holding it against him - no one else knows what it took to get us back here. No one else needs to know; no offense.”

”Alright, now you’re just making it more confusing. Fine,” Tim sighed, ”I’ll leave Jon out of it - for now. I expect I’ll hear the full story one way or the other in the end.”

”I’d say don’t believe it when you do,” Martin noted bitterly, ”There’s so many versions out there... it’s just tiring, really. It’s better forgotten. Luckily the ones who really remember are... rare. Most of us died there.”

Tim tapped the pads of his fingertips against his mug and hummed pleasantly under his breath. Then he sighed again and lifted his head, scratched the underside of his chin and stretched his neck.

”What’s ’us’, Martin?” he asked then. ”You keep referring to ’us’.”

”Well, you know - people like you and me and Jon. People who’ve been marked one way or the other,” Martin replied vaguely. He wasn’t sure why the subject felt so sensitive.

”What’s your damage, Martin? You don’t really come across any different to me than you were when I last saw you, and, well.”

”Are you telling me I wasn’t remarkable, Tim?” Martin chuckled wearily. The cup in his hand was growing colder now, and he eyed its empty bottom where the last drop was starting to settle.

”I’d never call you unremarkable,” Tim defended himself in an overtly dramatic tone, ”but I did sometimes forget you existed.”

Martin laughed.

”It all really happened after what went down at the museum,” he explained then, although hesitantly, ”I had a tough year, and like I said, it really didn’t get much better from there.”

”Who’s your god?”

”I don’t know, really. I’m part of the Eye as much as I’m part of the Lonely. They don’t really discriminate like that, you know? Which... poses a question about you. Hypotethical, I suppose, since - since you’re blind and all now, but...”

Tim tilted his head.

”Nope, not taking that job back, sorry,” he said rather sternly. Then he hesitated for a moment, his brows knitting closer. ”You know, I can’t tell it from you. You seem normal to me.”

”You’re not getting the spooky vibes from me?” Martin asked with a crooked smile, and Tim shook his head.

”Not even a little bit,” he confirmed. ”Couldn’t miss Jon if I was a hundred miles away, but with you, really, if you didn’t out yourself with every single sentence you speak, I wouldn’t have known.”

Martin pulled up his knee and placed his empty cup on the table. He was quiet for a moment, hugging himself with his arms and leaning his chin down against his leg.

”I guess I’m not really that scary,” he said then a little sadly, ”I’m just - part of something everyone dreads in a different way. Nobody wants to be alone. I know I didn’t. Some of us just... make it part of ourselves.”

”You really had a tough year there, didn’t you,” Tim said in a softer tone.

Martin chuckled quietly and nodded. It took him a moment to realise Tim couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter; the silence that stretched between them now was pleasant, ended only by Tim reaching out for the table in front of him to place his own empty cup upon it.

”Right,” Martin said then, fixing his posture and getting ready to jump up from the sofa, ”I told Jon to dig through my wardrobe for something you could wear, I think the pile on the chair is... yep, that’s it.”

”God,” Tim breathed out, ”Please. I can’t be rid of these rags fast enough.”

”I... agree, actually,” Martin chuckled as he stood up and crossed the table to the armchair with the pile of clothes on it. ”It’s not exactly going to be a fit, but you’re bigger than Jon, so...”

”I don’t care, honestly,” Tim told him seriously, ”Give me a dress and I’ll wear it. Anything but this mess.”

Martin huffed. He stretched out the black tee and considered it for a moment before making a ball out of it and casting it in Tim’s direction.

”Catch,” he warned him, and Tim made a general gesture through the air, briefly after which he was hit in the chest by the shirt.

”Thanks,” he grimaced, patting around his body to find it again.

”I think it’ll pass for a dress on you, really,” Martin pondered, ”It’s long on me already.”

”Well, like I said...”

”Mm-hmm. Time to prove it, I guess.”

”Can I get a general description of what I’m being made to wear?” Tim requested, currently feeling about for the label on the shirt’s collar. He found it, and without hesitation started to pull off his old, bloody and tattered shirt to get out of it. Martin averted his gaze.

”It’s just a black shirt with a small white heart on the sleeve. I bought it a couple months back, haven’t really worn it that much so it shouldn’t, you know, smell overly like me or anything weird like that.”

Tim sniffed it - Martin could hear it even as he threw the jeans over his arm, then added the belt Jon had no doubt dug out of his own wardrobe, as Martin was rather certain he owned a whole of two belts and this was neither of them.

”It smells of fresh middle class laundry,” Tim informed him, ”You’re really making it up in the world, aren’t you?”

”What are you, a laundry reader?” Martin asked him as he dropped the jeans on him. ”These are just plain washed jeans and a... really nondescript leather belt. Guess you’re going commando. Jon’s orders.”

”Good, I don’t really want to wear anyone else’s underwear, no offense. Freeballing it is preferable.”

Martin sighed.

”Do you want more tea?” he asked, ”I want to get out of the room before you _really_ freeball it.”

”Go for it,” Tim replied cheerfully - the black shirt really did cover him up to his thighs, revealing from beneath the bloody trousers that perfectly matched the red shirt he’d discarded. ”I need to practice my striptease before it’s ready for a tour anyway.”

”Right. Do you want eggs - bacon? A sandwich?”

”Now that you mention it... I’m starving. Yeah. Breakfast sounds great.”


	3. Practical Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A pleasant PSA for everybody: my beta's enjoying her holidays, so in this chapter all the mistakes are 100% mine. Enjoy.

* * *

  
Bacon wasn’t really sating his hunger, but Tim didn’t make a mention of it. Some part of him desperately needed the atmosphere to stay unchanged; he wanted to convince himself that this was it, somehow, and there would be no more terrible things coming his way anytime soon. So he sat there by the window, listening to the rain and reflecting on the way he could focus on it so much better now than before, how he could hear the individual drops cascading down from the skies and landing on the window and the walls, in a way he’d never really heard it before. Was it the blindness, or the fact that he hadn’t had much of a chance to really _listen_ to rain since 2017? Was it his new form, now somehow more sensitive that his senses weren’t blocked by the constant horror of what was being done to him? Was it the slumber that had lasted months, long enough to have him remain unaware of the literal end of the world and its eventual undoing?

”I wonder if it was because of the box they kept me in,” he said out loud with his mouth full of scrambled eggs.

”What?”

”That I missed out on all the bad stuff going down.”

”Sorry, I’m - I’m having a bad time imagining what it was like to be shoved inside a box,” Martin said and his voice betrayed him shuddering. ”That just sounds... awful.”

”It was,” Tim confirmed, surprised by his cheerful tone - he couldn’t really feel down, couldn’t really reach for the terror he’d felt back in those places and under those circumstances, in this English kitchen with his homemade breakfast and the comfort of the rain pouring down outside. ”It must have been more than a box, though, is what I’m saying. I can think of a hundred better places to store a man my size, so there had to be a reason.”

”Maybe it was like the coffin of the Buried? I don’t know if you remember that. Something to keep you... somewhere else, not quite _here_ , is what I mean.”

”Maybe. I didn’t really feel a thing inside it. Everything always went very quiet there. I didn’t mind it after a while. It was better than being out, anyway.”

That he didn’t want to think back to, so he stopped there and returned his focus on the rain. He could hear Martin get up and walk to the fridge; it stayed open for just a moment before the door closed again. It stung a little to not know where it was, even though he could hear it there. He didn’t know if there was something between him and the fridge, or what the distance really was. He’d never really given much thought to his blindness before - in the midst of being torn to pieces while becoming something _less than_ , then losing whatever had remained of his humanity through a thousand cuts and foreign pieces inserted into him that his body had somehow accepted as its new shape and form, it had really been a minor detail amongst the nightmare for him to deal with and he’d rarely mourned the loss of his vision before. Now it was more urgent, more pressing - he was out of _there_ , wherever the Stranger’s servants had kept him all this time, but surrounded by normalcy he could best feel the loss of what he’d once been in the never-lifting swirling nothingness that now made up his world. It wasn’t the same as opening his eyes in the dark like he’d always assumed being blind would be like, but rather there seemed to be an abstract, ever-shifting canvas in the place that his vision had once occupied, a canvas that his mind was projecting upon not in pictures but in memories of colours and shapes. Today, he could only picture it as a dim grey wallpaper with shifting silver streaks in it, like static in slow motion. He couldn’t really remember what Martin looked like; the shape of him sitting back down at the table was unfocused in his imagination.

Would he stay here long enough to learn his way around the house? The future scared him, he realised: it wasn’t the same fear he’d felt almost as long as he could remember but a new one, a fear of the unknown, perhaps ironic for what he now was. He hated that thought, and he hated it in his body, in all the little cavities of him now filled with stuffing instead of flesh, the wrongness of his structure that was no longer the product of blood and bone but which rather felt like the rejects of a circus puppeteer’s workshop. 

”You look sad,” Martin said gently.

He knew how to sound gentle, and that voice stung almost as bad as the self-hatred that Tim was fighting back under the surface. _It’s nothing_ , he wanted to say, but it really was something, he just didn’t see a way out of it. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he could confront these feelings in front of Martin anyway - hadn’t he judged Jon’s transformation, his loss of humanity in the harshest terms before? Did Martin remember that? Of course he did. He’d always been there to defend Jon. He’d always been there to _believe_ in him, even and especially when nobody else would. Tim didn’t expect much sympathy from either of them. Perhaps he deserved none, too.

Instead of replying, he smiled and shook his head.

”Where will I stay next?” he asked instead of answering the implicit question.

”Well, we do have a guest bedroom upstairs, so you won’t need to sleep on the sofa forever,” Martin promised.

Tim let out a sound of... what was that? Surprise?

”I meant - after I’ve stayed here,” he corrected Martin, although it felt rude after his offer of a bedroom. ”I don’t think Jon’s going to want me around forever, and while I don’t know if you’d explicitly say it to my face, I do think you’ll want your house back eventually too.”

”We haven’t really talked about that yet,” Martin said, sounding remarkably unoffended, ”I think it’s safe to say that for the time being... if you don’t mind, and, well, the way Jon was phrasing it, even _if_ you mind - you’ll be staying here with us. It was really either that or - you know.”

”Wait, Jon’s ultimatum was for me to stay here or die? Wow, I didn’t know he liked me that much,” Tim huffed in disbelief. ”Why?”

Martin hesitated. It sounded a lot like rain and the boiling water in a kettle somewhere across the room.

”I’m not... sure how much I can tell you yet,” he finally spoke then; he got up from the table again, presumably to fill his cup with the water that was by now getting very loud. 

”Tell me what you can. Please, I - I don’t like the uncertainty.”

”I know,” Martin sighed, ”I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just - he’s right, in a way, we can’t really trust you yet. I don’t know if it’s wise to tell you some of the things that I know will matter in the longer run. I do want to trust you, Tim, and I don’t think you’re working against us or that you ever would, but...”

”You don’t trust the Stranger.”

”No. I don’t,” Martin confirmed in a severe voice.

He came back, placing a filled cup on the table. It smelled of English Breakfast with honey.

”Does it help if I tell you that I really _, really_ hate the Stranger, too?” Tim offered, even though he knew it was of no use. ”I haven’t changed a bit in that, you know. Quite - quite the contrary, actually, now that we’ve mentioned it. If I live long enough, the only thing I want to see is it going down once and for all. I want it to burn in hell. I want it to die - and I want to kill it myself. If that’s not possible, well, I’ll make it suffer. I’ll make everything associated with it suffer. I want them to pay.”

He listened to Martin breathe for a while after he’d finished, and he could practically hear his thoughts through that thick silence. Then Martin sighed, lifted his cup and sipped from it; by the sound of it he regretted it instantly, as the tea had to still be unbearably hot in his mouth.

”I don’t think you’re going to get far with revenge,” he said then, ”It’s never worked out well for any of us before.”

”Well, Elias is dead, so...”

”At what cost?” Martin said in a desperate voice. Tim shrugged.

”I don’t know, do I? All I know is that it makes me really happy to know, and I only regret not being there in person to witness it. I’m not going to just forgive them, Martin. Any of them.”

”I know,” Martin replied, ”I know that. And I’m not asking you to. I’m just... telling you to be careful. Don’t do stupid things.”

Tim laughed.

”Like blow myself up to save the world?”

Martin let out a groan. His chair creaked when he moved in it, perhaps leaning back or simply shifting, and then his cup shifted on the table.

”Anyway...” he started again then, ”Like I said, we’ll need to find a way to keep you fed. Jon knows what it’s like to starve a connection to an Entity, and - well - I think that’s his first priority with you, to stop you from going through what he knows will happen if you don’t get to feed. But as to how, I don’t... I’m not sure yet. For Jon, it’s - it’s often nothing worse than reading or taking a statement. He can survive off of those for some time, sometimes easily, sometimes it’s a last resort, but we know it works for him and in a pinch that’ll do. We have resources to keep him alright.”

”And when it’s not enough...?”

”Well, like I said, we hunt. The difference is that we rather hunt other monsters than people. It’s harder. It hurts. People often... they can’t defend themselves against us, that’s why they’re easy prey. Going against another monster is different. It’s always fighting for your life, and when we feed on them, they feed on us. It’s a question of who ends up being more powerful. Jon just... happens to have an upper hand, so we don’t really risk too much. Well, he doesn’t.” Martin chuckled. ”I do.”

Tim scraped around his plate with his fork, looking for something to pick up. It was frustrating not to know what was on it, if anything, and in the end something fell off the side of the plate onto the back of his hand; it was a piece of cold scrambled egg. He ate it off his skin and wiped the oil off with the back of his other hand.

”Yeah, you took a knife to that fight yesterday. Not exactly the most effective weapon against the Stranger,” Tim pointed out.

”Jon’s... really the one who fights, I’m the guy who gets _him_ out of trouble when he needs it,” Martin said with a smile that echoed in his voice. ”And believe it or not, I’ve used that knife a few times, and it often works better than you’d think. What I think is going to happen is that... when we decide we can trust you, and we could probably trust you enough to fight against something that directly opposes your alignment already because there’s really no reason for you to betray us for them in either case... I think you’ll end up coming with us.”

”Great, we’ll be like Ghostbusters: The Monster Edition. Remember that time, like, two seconds ago when I explicitly stated I _don’t_ want my job back?”

Martin laughed.

”Well, I don’t see you having much of a choice. You can try to run and become a _real_ monster that preys on humans like the things we kill, but Jon will catch you, I promise you that much. You’re not strong enough to stop it. In the end, unless you want to end up like you were or - well, dead, really - then you’ll have to feed, and these are your choices. They’re not good ones, Tim, I’m not going to lie to you. It _sucks_ to be like this. But we had our choices and we... we made them. So that’s... it, really.”

Tim let it sit for a while. That sensation that had been brewing in his guts was now flowing rather freely in his veins and he couldn’t deny it any longer, it was self-hatred, and he felt it with every nerve, every human part left within him, like acid. So this was really it, the consequences he’d put off until now - the consequences for making a choice between death and living a life as a monster. Martin was right, wasn’t he? He’d chosen the Stranger willingly. Was it still consent if given under duress? He just hadn’t been brave enough to die. He wanted to hate himself for that but he couldn’t: he still remembered what it was like to fear death. It hadn’t really been a _choice_ then, had it? It didn’t matter. He wasn’t strong enough now and he didn’t see a way he’d ever be strong enough to be anything else than an abomination.

”Martin, I’m... I’m blind,” he said in a voice that trembled when he hesitated.

”I know,” Martin said, his voice softening again. ”I don’t really know how we’re going to deal with that. You said... something about spare parts? Is that how it works?”

”I know that’s how it works,” Tim confirmed, ”but I’m not gouging my own eyes out, no way. I think I’d rather die.”

”You know it’s... it’s likely that it’ll come down to that. Unless you can master echolocation or something, anyway. I don’t mean to sound like being blind or staying blind is _bad_ , that’s not - I’m just saying what we’re fighting against will use that against you and they _will_ kill you for it.”

There it was - the familiar fear of pain, of torture and suffering, flooding back into him. It fought for a while with his self-hatred and won as the dominant thing he was feeling, and his fingertips grew cold and he swallowed at a knot in his throat trying to relieve the tension creeping into his body. Another _choice_ he had to make: to pull out his own eyes or get killed by something else. Lovely.

”I know it’s not fair,” Martin said quietly.

”You know, it’s really not,” Tim said more sharply than he’d intended.

”Think about it, either way. I’m not telling you to do it. I won’t, ever, tell you to do something like that. It’s your choice. But we can’t feed you. I’m... I’m sorry. There’s nothing anyone else can do for you,” Martin told him.

”And you’d... help me?” Tim asked, ”Get it done and... well, I’d need the replacements.”

He couldn’t believe he was considering it. It just didn’t seem like there was really another way to go about it, and he _needed_ Martin’s support.

”Of course,” Martin promised, ”I don’t - I’ve never dealt with the Stranger, but - if you know how it’s done, I can... you don’t need another pair of _human_ eyes, do you?”

Tim chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

”No. I just need eyes. Fuck, I think buttons would work if we got creative enough with them, but let’s not go there, really. I saw Coraline once and I think it traumatised me for a lifetime,” he said, and Martin laughed. It warmed Tim up to hear - it had been such a long time since he’d last made people laugh. It felt good. It felt... natural. Like _him_.

”Alright, alright. So it’s - it’s definitely doable, then. That’s a relief, actually,” Martin sighed, then hurried to add: ”Other than the obvious. I’m not happy you have to go through that. But... it’ll heal, right?”

”Yeah, I guess.”

Tim was feeling just a little bit better about it. Not much, but... Martin was right: it would heal, wouldn’t it? It wasn’t forever. And he did miss his sight - missed knowing if there was still cold egg on his plate, and how far away the fridge was from the table and the kettle. Still... coming to it, he wasn't sure if he had it in him.

”I’ll talk about it with Jon,” Martin said after a short silence, ”See if he thinks it'll be worth trying.”

Tim nodded.  
”Anything else I should know?” he asked.

”Yeah, well, that’s the tricky part.”

The tricky part wasn’t removing his own eyes? Tim disagreed already.

”How so?” he asked doubtfully.

”Well - it’s tricky because I’m not sure if I should tell you about it, really,” Martin clarified, and he sounded a little regretful about it. ”For now, let’s just focus on getting you back in shape. I promise when it’s time we’ll tell you what you need to know.”

”Great. It really is like being back at the Institute, isn’t it?” Tim said dryly, and Martin made a non-committal sound in response.

”Which reminds me... if you do end up regaining your sight, it’ll answer my hypotethical,” he said, and Tim couldn’t help groaning.

”Maybe I’ll just explode all over again,” he growled, ”Two conflicting forces meet up and I won’t ever feel a thing before it’s all over.”

”I don’t know. Definitely a possibility,” Martin told him, and he sounded oddly fascinated by it. ”But in the end we don’t even know if you’ll be realigned with the Eye, you might have to do more than just _see_ to get back in its good graces. I don’t know - that's why I need to talk with Jon. He might know more, and - well, we shouldn't agree on anything before we've really considered the risks.”

"Fine."  
  
And it was fine, really; Tim was more than glad to put the subject aside for now.  
  


* * *

  
It was ironic how much of a throwback it was for Jon to open his own front door and walk inside, coat dripping with rainwater everywhere the umbrella hadn’t caught it first, and enter this scene that he hadn't witnessed since... since before everything had gone irreparably wrong. Maybe he’d expected Martin to be there waiting for him, but he wasn’t; instead he could hear him laughing, and then Tim’s voice in turn, speaking quickly and enthusiastically with a wide grin in the tone even though Jon couldn’t catch the words in time. And the way Martin was answering him was animated, too; it wasn’t the first time Jon noticed it, but Martin wasn’t the same around him as he was around other people. There was always a quiet between them, some balance that they’d found together that wasn’t present whenever Martin spoke to others, and for a moment he stayed in the corridor slowly undoing his wet coat simply listening to that other side of the man he loved so much. He didn’t want to walk in on the moment, either - he’d sour it in an instant, no doubt. It was better if for just a little while longer neither of the others in the house knew that the door had opened and closed.

Then, just as Jon was done hanging his scarf, Martin appeared in the doorway. He still had a smile on him but it was calmer now, fond and warm as Jon was used to seeing it: he responded in kind, and in silence they met in the corridor, bodies colliding in a soft embrace.

”How was work?” Martin asked.

”Boring, too quiet without you there. No statements to speak of. The archives are overly organized to my liking. I had nothing to do,” Jon told him with a crooked smile.

”That sounds just dreadful,” Martin sighed, his arms lingering around Jon’s shoulders.

”No worse than your day, I’m sure,” Jon huffed, ”You must have hated it here. Drinking tea all day, enjoying the rain from the comfort of a house that doesn’t have a constant draft. I would die, Martin. I would just die.”

”Sure you would.”

”How’s the guest?” Jon asked then, ”Based on the sound of it and the fact that you seem largely unharmed, I’d like to think that nothing went too badly wrong.”

”It’s been a lot,” Martin said, and his voice was sincere, ”There’s - a lot, Jon. But it’s alright. We need to talk about him. Nothing’s wrong, it’s just... we both have questions. I’m sure you do, too.”

”Talk _about_ him or _with_ him?”

”About him, first off. Then with him, maybe.”

Jon sighed. 

”Very well. I’ve got nothing better to do with my evening,” he said and he meant it; there wasn’t a way he was going back to the book he’d been reading before Tim had showed up.

”I’ll tell him we want some privacy,” Martin said.

”I’ll wait upstairs.”

Martin nodded, finally separating from Jon whose hands were left empty as he turned back towards the living room. Jon fisted them lightly and brought them back to his side, glanced up at the staircase and took a deep breath, a breath full of the familiar scent of the place he’d called a home for over a year now. It wasn’t long, but Martin was what had made him feel more rooted in it than he’d perhaps ever felt in a place before - if he’d have his way, this would be the place where he’d live the rest of his life, however short or long it might be. It was perfect for a couple, perfect for a small library and perfect for the cat he still wanted to adopt, it just wasn’t the right time yet. The truth was, he’d never recovered from the Change, and every living moment beyond it felt borrowed. Buying a house had been more commitment than he’d been ready for, but Martin had insisted. Maybe he, too, had just wanted to start over in a place that felt their own - Jon had obliged, as after all, his own flat had been too small to house two in it and there was no place that Martin had wanted to go back to beyond it. 

Now as he walked up the stairs he took it very slowly: if Martin would catch him on the way then so be it, he could afford a little sentimentality for himself and he was sure that Martin would understand. It was hard to believe he’d lived long enough to _be_ there still to appreciate these little things in the first place. That was why they didn’t have a cat yet, really; he was still waiting to die, even though it had been a while since his life had last been in any real danger. It just wasn’t the right time. Not now, not yesterday, probably not tomorrow, either. Books, on the other hand, didn’t care if he’d die tomorrow, so he’d managed to grow his collection by quite a few since they’d moved - the bigger house allowed for more space to store them, and more storage meant that he could indulge a little. Martin encouraged it, of course; he liked reading, too. 

The first floor was what Jon liked to think of as the quiet one. All life in the house often focused on the ground floor; they spent their free time in the living room or the kitchen, their laptops charging here or there depending on where they’d last left them, and only in the night or when privacy was needed did they use the floor above it. There was a small but comfortably crowded office there next to the guest bedroom that doubled as a safehouse for all the furniture they’d had but didn’t know what to do with. The office was where Jon took his work back to whenever Martin drew him away from it too early, and where Martin locked himself to recite his poetry that Jon still more often than not was not allowed to hear - he treated it like Martin’s journal and left it be, but every time he was involved in it, he knew to give it the respect and attention the occasion deserved. It was always heartfelt, if not particularly refined, and it was that quality to it that Jon had grown very fond of. It felt so distinctively Martin’s, and he could recognise him through the words, and it often felt as if he was looking through a window into the place in Martin’s mind where the piece had come from. Maybe that was why those things were so few and far inbetween for them. After all, they’d made _privacy_ a priority in their relationship from the beginning.

Beside them was the smaller bathroom, and then on the other end of the corridor the bedroom, where Jon now sat down on the bed to pull off his partially wet socks. It was maybe his favourite room in the house, because it felt the most _theirs_ , like this was the heart of the home where he was safest, where he felt the most present and most _alive_. The bedcover was his grandmother’s, the sheets always ones that Martin had picked out for them, and they’d actually bought the bed itself together - the frame was dark wood and the mattress soft, and their pillows were flat simply because it seemed that they’d never remember to buy new ones to replace those that had travelled with them from their previous homes. It was the only place that Jon allowed disorganisation, the only place that was allowed (or even supposed) to look properly lived-in; there was a shirt right now cast over a chair by the window, and the candles had leaked wax onto the metal plate that they sat upon with some burnt matches beside them. One couldn’t call it a mess on a good day, but it reinforced the feeling of comfort Jon felt in it, to have it always look as if they were present in it. 

With Martin there with him, it felt complete.

”I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m tired,” Martin informed him as he hopped on the bed beside him.

It creaked an objection to the violent manner he’d entered it, but the sturdy frame could take their weight and plenty more and barely shook by the impact.

”Tell me,” Jon prompted, and Martin drew a long breath that he held for a moment before letting it out.

”He seems alright,” he said then, ”I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him that I can see. I know I don’t _know_ like you do, but I really don’t feel that he’s any danger to me. I think I could tell - there’d be some instinct at least to tell me to be wary of him if he wasn’t, you know, _actually_ Tim, but there’s nothing. I feel rather at ease around him, even knowing what he is.”

”I could tell,” Jon told him, ”I heard you talking when I came in.”

”I thought you might have. He’s... funny, you know? He’s still funny.”

”I suppose I never shared in on much of that, did I.”

”No,” Martin agreed, ”I suppose you didn’t. Anyway, I can still tell, you know - there’s other things in there, too. Things he’s not letting me in on. Normally I’d say fine, keep your secrets, but I can’t really do that right now, can I? So I’ve tried prodding him a little bit about most of it, and what I’ve learned is... it should really be obvious, but I’m just going to pretend it isn’t.”

”It probably isn’t obvious to me either way, so I’d rather you tried,” Jon reminded him, but Martin shook his head.

”You’ve been through it, so it _is_ obvious. He doesn’t like what he is. He doesn’t want to be what he is, but he doesn’t want to die, so he’ll take it because he has to, because there’s really no other option. And he _hates_ the Stranger, way more than you and I do, and you know it’s personal for us - well, in comparison to him, we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

”I wouldn’t call walking through several entire _realms_ of the Stranger ’barely scratching the surface’, but I’ll take your word on it, because I know he’s had it hard,” Jon said a little bitterly.

”Good. I’d really appreciate it if your hard feelings for him didn’t come into this right now.”

”I’m trying my best, Martin. I’m sure he is, too. A lot has changed.”

”And yet, it feels a little bit like nothing has,” Martin said, sharing Jon’s bitter tone from before. ”Either way, with all that said, he really doesn’t know much more than he knew when we lost him. I’d say he’s a little bit more informed about the Fears and the food chain, and he definitely knows quite a bit about how the Stranger works in specific, but that’s really about it - I don’t think he knows a thing about himself. At all. I don’t think he knows what he can do, and he definitely doesn’t know what he _could_ be doing.”

Jon considered it for a moment.

”Have you asked him about his powers?” he asked then, and Martin tilted his head uncertainly.

”I did ask him a little bit, but I didn’t want to alert him into, you know, thinking too deeply about it. Since he doesn’t seem to know, I felt it was smarter to let him be ignorant for a little while longer - if there’s something there that could hurt us, it’s better that he doesn’t know how to use it before we’ve figured out if we can trust him, right?”

Jon nodded.

”Smart move.”

”We know he can change the way he appears, but I guess that’s a given for the Stranger,” Martin pointed out.

”I’d be more surprised if he couldn’t. The limits of that ability interest me, but I don’t think he has much insight into it yet if he knows so little about everything else,” Jon admitted.

Martin nodded.

”He also thinks that he can control other people’s perception, not only of himself but of others and his surroundings. He didn’t have proof of it, but I think gut feelings go pretty far when it comes to your powers,” he said, and Jon couldn’t help but agree.

Most of the things he’d discovered he could do had been nothing but instinct and guesswork, feelings he’d chased down to the source when he’d needed them the first time. If Tim felt he could do it should he put his mind to it, then he probably could, and it was safer to assume he’d have that ability ready in an instant if it was needed just like Jon had had most of his own. They rarely required hard practice to acquire - what mattered the most was the strength of the one using them. Simply _using_ a power was very different to mastering one, however, so even though this was concerning, Jon didn’t find himself overly worried about it quite yet.

”Anything else?”

”We can fix his eyes?” Martin said, his voice diplomatic, asking Jon to let him explain. ”He says all we need is another pair of eyes - it doesn’t matter what kind of eyes, so I was thinking of... you know, maybe a pair of prosthetics, something normal.”

”Interesting. And I suppose that means he needs to get rid of his own first.”

”Well... yeah.”

Jon sighed.

”I was just thinking,” Martin continued then, ”since he’ll need to feed but we _don’t_ want him feeding on anyone who doesn’t deserve it or only deserves it a little bit, if he could see again, we could take him with us - you know, to hunt.”

Jon had thought the same thing; it seemed the only way to keep him from starving, from going off on his own and becoming something much worse than he was now. The idea hadn’t exactly been one he’d been happy for, but he couldn’t deny the practical advantage a bigger team would provide them in a fight, or just in general. To add another Fear into the mix would only make them stronger, give them a better edge in a fight against other avatars and their creations - especially if there would ever be a need to fight one of their own, in which case an avatar of the Stranger would be an advantage that no one else would have to them. Still, he couldn’t trust Tim. He had barely trusted him before and his transformation into what he was now had certainly not made things any better, even if time had healed some of the wounds that had festered between them when they’d still been on the same team.

”There is the problem of the Watcher,” Jon said then, slowly, ”I don’t think the Fears of knowing and of the unknown will ever play nicely together, Martin.”

”I was thinking about that. Do you think - if he regains his sight, he’ll still be bound to the Eye?”

Jon shook his head hesitantly.

”I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know what would happen.”

”Well, that’s a rare one,” Martin pointed out with a small smile, and Jon gave him one back with a shrug.

”We’re not all-knowing anymore, remember?”

”Just mostly-knowing. Right.”

”Yes, well, what I wanted to get at was that finding out might cost him his life,” Jon continued then, ”and I don’t think the odds are in his favour.”

Martin looked down. ”I was afraid you’d say that.”

”If he wants to stay alive, and all the signs point towards him very much wanting that, I don’t think it’d be wise to risk it.”

”Okay. So... then what? He can’t fight like that,” Martin said, ”I know some people can but it would take years to train and he might never get it anyway, and it’s not like you can kung-fu an avatar of the Vast or something.”

Jon snorted softly. He shook his head.

”We’ll just have to keep digging,” he said then, reaching his hand towards Martin, who accepted it and held it firmly in his own. ”I’d like to talk to him, but... I’m not sure if that’s the best idea, given our history.”

”Given your present,” Martin huffed, and Jon shrugged indecisively. ”Maybe it’d do you two good to start over. I’ll be here, you know, to negotiate if you end up in a fist fight. Just... Jon, please don’t smite him for getting on your nerves.”

Jon sighed: ”I wouldn’t. You know that.”

”I know. I’m just saying. You didn’t have these powers when you two were fighting before.”

”I don’t want - Martin, I _don’t_ want things to be that way again,” Jon said sharply. ”I didn’t want them to end the way they did, either.”

”Well, I guess here’s your second chance. _Both_ of you. God, it’s - I wish we could just bury the past. I know, I know it’s not fair to either of you and I know you’re both hurt, but... the world _ended_ , you know? I’m just tired of the bad blood, Jon.”

He looked away, his grip of Jon’s hand tightening for a moment.

”I’m not being an ass on purpose,” Jon told him quietly.

”I believe you,” Martin promised, ”I really do. So... yeah, I think you should talk to him. One on one. Tell him - tell him I told him to behave nicely. I’ll be here. You guys... just sort it out, okay?”

Jon tilted his head uncertainly.  
”I don’t think it’s something that can be fixed like that,” he said, and Martin shook his head.

”No,” he agreed, ”but it’s a start.”


	4. Monsters

* * *

Someone was coming down the stairs. Light steps, barely triggered the creaky stair at all, and then they stopped almost all the way down, or where Tim at least expected the staircase to end. For a moment there was nothing but the rain, but then the footsteps resumed, and this time the landing step creaked.

He was almost certain it was Jon coming down alone - he’d heard Martin climb up and down a few times during the day and he walked them briskly, like he was eager to conquer them up and down. Jon walked them like a damn cat, barely audible at all. He continued that way down the corridor, and then knocked softly on the doorway in, his dark fire sparking into view past the wall.

”Could we talk for a bit?” he asked.

Tim hugged his knees closer.

”Martin’s not joining us, then? Just the two of us,” he said with a little chuckle, ” _Just_ the way we like it.”

Jon sighed. He entered the room and hovered about for a moment.

”You can sit down,” Tim prompted him, ”It’s your own living room. Don’t let me hold you back.”

”I’m... Fine. Alright.”

The cushions bent down as Jon’s weight pressed onto them. Tim listened to him adjust and at first he could hear his feet on the floor, but then he moved again and the cushions bent and it seemed like they were sitting the same way, or at least they both now had their feet off the cold floor and on the couch - there was little space between them, but enough that Tim couldn’t feel the air shifting when Jon did.

”Sorry for these,” he said then when Jon didn’t speak and wriggled his toes against the fabric underneath, ”I heard you picked out my clothes and I didn’t get any socks.”

Jon made a small sound of acknowledgement. Within a moment he was standing again, and Tim listened to him move about in the room for a moment’s time before stopping, and there was the sound of wood being shifted, being piled.

”Sorry about that,” Jon said what felt like several minutes later.

”It’s fine, I could have asked Martin for a pair this whole day and I didn’t. What are you doing?”

”Lighting the fireplace. It’s getting cold in here.”

”Nice. I like that. A little rain and a cozy fire - how was work, by the way? Dreadful like usual?”

Jon’s low chuckle barely crossed the space between them, and it was muffled by him facing another direction, but Tim picked it up and drew a quiet breath to relax himself. He really would have preferred it if Martin had been there with them; Jon’s presence wasn’t as outright _offensive_ to his senses as it had been the night before, but he still sounded like a car crash in Tim’s ears and the way his light was twisting and bending was keeping him on edge.

”It’s... better now,” Jon told him as he struck a match, ”I suppose I’ve grown used to it.”

”Who’s in charge, anyway, since good old Elias is dead?”

”I am. Jonah... _Elias_ didn’t leave me much choice.”

For a second time that day, Tim decided to ignore the issue of the name.

”Oh. So _you’re_ the big boss now,” he said instead, ”So who’s the head archivist? Surely you didn’t quit that job before getting another.”

”That position,” Jon sighed heavily, ”seems to be rather permanently filled by me, whether I want it or not. Do you want to talk about that?”

”Not really,” Tim confessed. ”But it sure seems that I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?”

If Jon acknowledged his words somehow, there was no audible indication of it. He moved about again and the fire was beginning to crackle in its pit - the sound of metal colliding with metal told Tim that the doors had been closed, and the fire’s sound was muffled by the barrier.

”What are you, anyway?” he asked when Jon returned to the couch.

”The Archivist,” Jon said simply, and for a moment it sounded like he wasn’t going to elaborate. ”An avatar of the Ceaseless Watcher, the Living Archive, the one who brought about the Change and the one who fucked it all up.”

”Wasn’t expecting that ending, if I’m honest with you,” Tim chuckled dryly. ”Alright. So you’ve got some titles now, that’s - wonderful - but I have no idea what any of that means.”

”It’s better that way.”

”For you or for me?”

”For me,” Jon concluded with honesty, ”It’s... pleasant to be talking to someone who doesn’t know what I’ve become. I know it’s not fair to you, but...”

”No, by all means, keep me in the dark. The more I hear, the more I’m deciding that I really don’t want to know more than I have to,” Tim said, more sincere than he’d perhaps expected to be. His head was heavy with it all already, and he didn’t even know who he was. No; he didn’t even know how to get from one room to the other without getting lost - how the hell was he supposed to take in the rest of it? He sighed. ”The truth is, I’m afraid I might have to hate you again if you told me everything. I might even have to hate _Martin_. And I don’t - I can’t afford that right now, you know? I don’t have any allies. I don’t have anyone I can trust or - or a place to go. You haven’t killed me yet, whatever you’ve become, so... I’ll take that.”

”Tell me something,” Jon asked, and Tim could feel his skin prickling again. ”Four years ago. What changed your mind about dying?”

Tim laughed.

”Fear? I was afraid, Jon. And dear God - Martin already told me, but has it really been four years?”

”More or less,” Jon confirmed.

”Well, that’s four years that I’ll never get back,” Tim said bitterly, ending the words with another dreary chuckle.

”It’s four years that you wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t taken the Stranger’s offer.”

The closer Jon was to him, the less his voice echoed when he spoke, and the less bright his shadow was. When he was sitting there opposite to Tim, he was a foreboding black void in the midst of the void that already existed there almost in the shape of a man - Tim could tell which way he was facing, the tense angle of his shoulders and the fact that he, too, had pulled his knees to his chest like Tim had done, speaking the body language of putting up as many walls between them as possible.

”Not sure if I’m supposed to be happy about that,” Tim said coolly.

Jon shook his head. ”It doesn’t matter.”

”It kind of does to me, you know? They’re my four years after all.”

”We can talk about it if you’d like.”

”I’d rather not,” Tim huffed, ”talk about it with you, no offense. It just sounds like you want another statement and I’m really not in the mood for it right now.”

Jon chuckled wearily.

”I didn’t mean to do that,” he confessed, ”You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s... second nature by now.”

”Yeah, no, can’t pull me back into it, sorry, Jon.”

”It’s - better that way. I don’t always think about it. Martin’s usually... Martin’s there to catch me if I start slipping, but you can resist it. I’m not used to that. I’m not used to people I can’t -”

”Mind control?”

Jon shrugged.  
”Call it what you want.”

”Yep, you’re _definitely_ starting to sound like Elias,” Tim pointed out, ”I don’t like it.”

It seemed to strike a nerve. Jon adjusted, his posture turning worse than it had been before - he portrayed a strange combination of absolute confidence with the aura of never lifting shame, like he knew exactly what he was and what he could do, yet hated every bit of it at once.

”I did want to talk about what you are,” Jon started over then, the previous conversation abandoned.

”Tough,” Tim said with a shrug, ”Because I don’t know, really. I haven’t got a clue.”

”Maybe I can help you figure it out.”

”And naturally, there’s no exchange involved whatsoever. This doesn’t benefit you at all,” Tim prodded at him sharply.

Jon drew a breath, then let it out in a defeated exhale.

”I don’t want anything from you, Tim. I’m sorry. I am. For - for what and who I was before, for the things I did wrong. Right now, I want to help you - that’s all. I believe Martin’s explained the situation to you somewhat, your... position, your _needs_ as what you are now. I assume you don’t want to go back to that husk that we found last night.”

Slowly, Tim shook his head. He wanted to hang onto that apology, even make one of his own, but it tasted bitter like bile in his mouth and he chose to swallow the words instead.

”I’m more concerned I might hurt somebody,” he said then, choosing to be truthful even though he had a hard time trusting Jon. It was easy to talk to Martin, even though he was certain there were few things Martin wouldn’t have shared with Jon had it come to it, but he’d decided not to think about it, not as he was now, not under the circumstances he was in. He didn’t have a choice. ”That’s what will happen, right? I remember what it felt like the first time. How sick I was when I left the archives before. It’s - it’s going to be like that again, isn’t it?”

”Yes,” Jon said quietly, ”It’s going to be like that, and then worse, and worse, until you don’t know who you are anymore, until you can’t tell where you are, who you once were, what you wanted. It’s all just hunger and weakness and pain, there’s nothing else left. I would have thought you’d know that already - you were past all that when we found you.”

”I don’t remember it,” Tim admitted, ”I don’t remember much at all after the last time I was... torn apart.”

”Healing can be exhausting.”

”I suppose so, because after that it’s just - nothing. And I guess I wasn’t _healed_ when you found me, either.”

”No. You weren’t.”

”So - so what? It doesn’t look good for me, really,” Tim laughed, his voice tense, anxious and devoid of joy.

”I need to know what you can do, or what you _think_ you can do. Tell me everything that’s changed since you were marked.”

He did. At first the words came out hesitantly; descriptions of feelings, sensations in his body and his torn skin, the manner in which he’d survived death by clinging to flesh that could no longer sustain life in it. The way he’d felt pieces of himself being taken and replaced, and how he’d grown around the new parts until they made up most of what he was, and how sometimes these parts felt more human than at other times, and how he hadn’t known that he could control it before this very morning. How now he could feel his skin shifting at command, and if he only willed it he could make himself _change_ , but he wasn’t sure how, or what it meant. How Martin had woken him up and told him that he’d transformed overnight, and how he’d been shifting himself ever so slightly throughout the day just to convince himself that that feeling was real, yet he’d held back from truly experimenting with it out of the fear that something would... break.

”Anything else?” Jon asked when he’d ran out of things he could plainly point out.

Tim shook his head. Then, a mere second or two later, he realised there was one more thing.

”I can see you,” he told Jon, ”I can - _sense_ you.”

Jon shifted, letting out a curious sound.

”You can _see_ me?” he asked, and Tim nodded hesitantly.

”Not _see_ see, really, more like - you seem to glow in my vision. I can tell where you are in a room, it’s really quite hard to miss. Your voice sounds... no offense, but I kind of hate listening to it more than I used to,” he chuckled, shrugging diplomatically.

”What do you hear?”

”I’m not sure. I don’t know. Sometimes it sounds like - like _static_ , like it’s distorted, and sometimes it’s like you’re speaking over the whole of hell screaming behind you. Trust me, you sound bad,” Tim told him.

”But you could tell it was me.”

”Yeah, well, I was locked in a box for four years, but I haven’t forgotten what you sounded like yet. I can still hear you over it all, it’s just... yeah. It’s distorted and awful.”

Jon huffed. He was quiet for a moment before asking: ”Do you think you could tell if you met anybody else who wasn’t human?”

Tim shook his head. ”I don’t know. Maybe? I mean - I can’t tell from Martin, I didn’t know he was marked by anything before he told me today.”

”Martin isn’t an avatar or a creation of any of the Fears. He’s got more in common with humans than either of us do,” Jon said quietly.

”See, I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t know. I - I couldn’t see the ones who were torturing me, but I guess they would have been _unknowable_ and all, so does that really mean anything? Maybe? It’s... I guess I’ll tell you if I ever see someone else who shines and sounds like Hades himself, but until then...”

”Martin told me you’d talked about your... vision,” Jon continued from there as the fire crackled loudly in the background, its heat slowly creeping into the living room and up to Tim’s huddled shape on the couch. ”I don’t think you should go through with it.”

”That’s a relief,” Tim said with a quiet laugh, ”I really, really don’t want to.”

”I think... if you can perceive the Fears, or at least other beings near you, then you won’t need your eyesight. It’d spare you from the pain, at least. Of course there’s... other problems with it. Melanie...”

”What about Melanie?”

Jon sighed. ”She quit the Institute - she chose blindness over servitude to the Eye.”

”Wait, are you telling me -”

”Yes, there’s a way to quit.”

”And it’s...”

”Yes.”

Tim lifted his hand and ran it over his blind eyes. He wanted to laugh again but there was no getting through the lump in his throat.

”Jesus,” he muttered instead, ”Glad I’m done with that. But hey, at least... not everyone has to _die_ to get out.”

”You didn’t, either. You just... happened to leave your notice without realising it at the time,” Jon said with a hint of a smile in his voice. ”I - I guess I brought it up because... You’re not alone, Tim. I can’t speak from experience but I’d - I’d like to help you adjust, if there’s anything you need from me. You have a place to sleep here, and I don’t expect you to pay rent since you are, in essence, our captive in the first place.”

”Happy that we’re on the same page about that,” Tim pointed out, his voice humoured.

Jon chuckled under his breath. ”There’s - another thing.”

”Yeah?”

”I’d like you to show me what you can do,” he said, ”Everything you think you are capable of right now.”

”Jon, I don’t think... what about Martin?”

”Do you really think your powers will reach beyond this room on the first attempt?” Jon asked, his voice calculative, formal, not belittling as Tim had expected it to be.

”I - yeah, actually. I don’t think I’m going to be stopped by a couple doorways and stairs, no offense to your house which I’m sure is very nice,” Tim told him, his voice strained. He didn’t want to use his _powers_ \- he wanted to swallow them whole and forget that they existed. It took him a moment to realise that he was ashamed of them: ashamed of someone else seeing them, of seeing him as he was now, and doing what he felt he could very easily achieve would only reveal him as the creature he was afraid he’d become. It had been like a game he’d played earlier when Martin hadn’t been looking, but with Jon... he shivered. ”I’m not a fucking SCP, Jon. I don’t want you to analyse me.”

”Still,” Jon said, sounding remarkably calm. ”I need to know what you can do. If I don’t, I can neither trust you nor help you - and I want to know what I’ll be against if you do turn on us. I can’t read you, Tim, and the Stranger is not my friend.”

”I’m not going to _turn_ on you,” Tim hissed, ”Why can’t you just trust me, Jon? Why can’t you take my word this one time? Do you really need to read the minds of everyone who says anything to you to know they’re not lying?”

”I told you already, I’m _sorry_ ,” Jon replied, hugging his legs tighter. ”I don’t want to be your enemy, Tim. I didn’t want it before and - and I don’t want it now. I know that’s what this is really about. Tell me I’m wrong.”

”You’re not,” Tim confirmed, ”If you couldn’t trust me when I was just a guy, I don’t see a way in hell you’ll ever trust me like this either.”

”I was...” Jon sighed, his words fading. 

The pause lingered. 

”I was stupid,” he finally started again, letting a deep breath out, ”I was arrogant and naïve, I thought I only needed myself and that I shouldn’t trust anyone because it could get somebody hurt. I know I hurt you. I know I did everything wrong, and I - I’ve changed, Tim. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not better than anybody else, and I need you as much as... no, I need everyone around me much more than they need me. I’m the one who keeps ruining everything, and I’m the one who needs saving. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t learned to trust, but I did have to learn it the hard way. And I’m sorry - I truly, really am sorry, Tim, that I didn't trust you and that I couldn't help you, and that I can't trust you now the way that you deserved then. I want to, at least, be able to help you now, even if it's the only thing I can give you.”

Now Tim couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. It was dry like the husk of a mummified animal, and that’s really how he felt inside if not for a small part of him that felt... felt warm, _healed._

”Now that’s - that’s something else,” he chuckled, ”I didn’t think you’d have that in you, if I’m honest with you.”

”Tim...”

”No, no, you’re fine. It’s - it’s fine. It’s been four years, I’ve died, you’ve - died, I guess - we’ve all died, the world ended, I’m not working for the _fucking Institute_ anymore, I can finally take my leave and climb a fucking mountain if I want to, I guess, I’ll have to look into that one day. What I’m... what I’m saying is, I... I get it, Jon. It’s been a long time. I don’t really know you, I - I didn’t back then and I sure as fuck don’t anymore. So... I have to take your word on it. So be it. I’m taking your word. You say you’re sorry - that’s great. I wish I could say the same to you but I...”

”You don’t have to,” Jon said when Tim didn’t carry on. ”I’m not holding my breath to hear it. It’s... past, now, Tim. I... I feel like what you did to stop the Unknowing was more than enough, I never blamed you for - I didn’t want you to die. When I learned that you had, I... I’m - I’m not good at this. But I don’t want you to feel like you owe me an apology. It’s over. If you’re still angry with me for all that I said and did to earn it then so be it. I’m not going to argue with you.”

”I pretty much killed you, too, didn’t I?” Tim asked, his voice as dry as his husk of a laugh had been.

Jon was quiet. His flame burned brighter for a moment - or darker, it was hard to tell, hard to make out the difference between light and darkness when there was nothing there to compare it to.

”I survived because of what I am,” he said then, ”but I suppose a part of me - a large part of me, I think - died in that wax museum.”

”Did it hurt?”

”I don’t remember.”

”I do,” Tim told him, and the reality of it bit at his mismatched bones. ”It hurt like hell.”

”Will you show me, then?”

Slowly - very, very slowly, and very stiffly as well - Tim nodded.

”I’ll give you my worst,” he said with his head tilting and a smile lingering on his lips, ”I have no idea what that is, so... good luck.”

”Martin?” Jon called loudly; it took only a moment for the footsteps to emerge from upstairs to the landing above the stairs.

”What? Do you - is something wrong?” Martin called back, and Tim could imagine him leaning over the railing to peer at where he assumed the living room’s door was in relation to the stairs. Jon shifted, then stood up and walked to the door.

”Go in the bedroom, close the door,” he said in a gentle voice, a voice that Tim had positively never heard him use with anyone before. ”I need you to tell me what you felt and saw once it’s over. Mark down anything out of the ordinary.”

”You’re going to have him fight you, aren’t you,” Martin asked in a defeated voice. ”Be careful, Jon. Really.”

”I’ll be alright, Martin. I don’t think there’s anything that he can do to seriously hurt me.”

Tim lowered his head until his forehead met his denim-covered kneecaps. He closed his eyes although he wasn’t sure if they’d already been closed before he’d pressed them more so, and then he breathed, feeling a strange sensation brewing in his gut - a cold that was seeping into his veins like liquid fire. It heated up his fingertips and made his hair stand on end.

There was the sound of a door closing, and as it did, that sensation within him surged like a wave crashing ashore; he didn’t know what he was doing or how to control it but wasn’t that what Jon had asked for, that he didn’t try, that he gave him his _worst?_ Well, this would be his worst - it burned like a frostbite and he wanted to scream as he let that surge within him break out of what he was, and the air vibrated around him, the ground was moving and his breath was silent but there were sounds outside of him that came from within him, and he turned his focus towards Jon’s beacon, that awful fire that he couldn’t shut out of his vision, until the vibrations were strangling it and making it break into pieces.

He’d never felt so powerful in his life. He’d never felt such excitement, and there was an immensely satisfying feeling mixing within that excitement that he recognised distantly as _pleasure_ , the same kind he’d felt when Martin had been kneeling before him the night before - if it was him laughing, he couldn’t recognise the sound. He wanted to make Jon hurt. It... made the pleasure so much stronger. He deserved it, didn’t he? The _Watcher_ deserved it, and Jon was nothing but a door open directly to its core, straight to where it would hurt the most... The ground was shaking harder and the air was thick and dense and his seams were breaking apart in his body and he could feel himself changing, growing, becoming more than he’d been before. He had more to hold onto Jon with, more to strangle him, to claw at him, to _tear_ at him, and his fire kept spitting out embers and sparks like it was choking until _suddenly_ \- suddenly everything was black fire and fury and what had once been Tim could feel himself falling back and the awful, piercing pain of being _seen_ and _witnessed_ struck him like a thousand knives, and he couldn’t hide from it, couldn’t move from the fear of it, and he let out a sound that was barely human if at all but it came from his own throat and then... it was over.

He sat collapsed on the floor, unable to tell where he was or how far he’d moved or if this was the same house at all, and Jon was burning the same as he’d burned before if not for the angry sparks that flashed from him and shimmered in the air around him. The Eye turned away, and Tim let his body fall down.  
  


* * *

  
Martin cracked open the bedroom door.

”... Jon? _Jon_ ,” he called.

The corridor was as dark as the bedroom he was leaving behind: the power had to be out. There was an awful feeling still lingering everywhere, permeating every surface, every wall and the ceiling of the house that Martin loved as his home, as the safest place he knew on Earth. He was shaking, but he stepped out and made his way through to the stairs in the light that the city outside provided through the wet windows, and it wasn’t much but it was enough for him to find his way to where he leaned over to look downstairs.

”I’m alright, Martin,” Jon said softly, looking up from the doorway, but... he was visibly shaking, leaning to the wall behind him. He smiled when his eyes caught Martin’s, and yet he was still out of breath. ”Are you alright?”

”I love you,” Martin told him stupidly.

Jon nodded.

”I love you too. Are you alright?” he repeated.

”Y-yeah,” Martin said, ”I - I don’t think I was hurt. Everything just went weird. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t anywhere. I wasn’t - wasn’t really sure who _I_ even was. Everything was just... just weird, Jon.”

”I know.”

Jon turned his gaze back towards the living room. The smell of a fire lingered in the air but Martin couldn’t see the glow of the fireplace coming through the door.

”Come downstairs. It’s safe,” Jon said then and pushed himself off the doorway, ”I need your help.”

Martin nodded and made his way the best he could down the stairs in the darkness.

”Light the fireplace again, please,” Jon told him when he entered the living room.

He was crouched over Tim’s shape on the floor; Martin could make out the outline of his pale hand as it moved, reached for Jon’s arm and attached to the side of his sleeve.

”You’re alright,” Jon’s voice carried on from behind Martin as he turned to do as he’d been asked to. ”I’m sorry if that was a bit... rough. Hold on. Let’s - get you back on there.”

A pause.

”You need to rest.”

The fire moaned as Martin lit it again. The wood was barely charred from the time it had been burning but the smell of it was strong and warm even after he’d closed the doors on it. He turned, but before he could really tell what was happening, Jon was there; he grabbed a hold of his arm and nudged him to follow him, and together they made their way into the kitchen, the door of which Jon closed firmly behind them.

”What happened?” Martin hissed. ”Jesus.”

Jon brought his hand up to his arm and rubbed at it in discomfort.

”I think I understand,” he said hesitantly.

”Then care to enlighten me? That was _not_ what I expected to happen.”

”It’s - complicated,” Jon started, and Martin detached from his grip only to walk up the kitchen and then back to him, and he attached himself to Jon and buried his head into the crook of his neck and breathed him in deep, the terrifying bottomless feeling still trapped in his stomach. Jon brought his arm around him and stroked his back slowly for a moment, leaning his head and his prickly jaw into Martin’s hair. ”Tell me when you’re ready.”

”I’m ready,” Martin promised, ”I just - want to be here when you tell me.”

”Alright.”

Jon reached his other hand up and shifted his fingers into Martin’s hair.

”I told you that I thought he might be an avatar; a weak, inexperienced one but still one with potential to become something... stronger.”

”I remember that.”

”I think... there’s more to it,” Jon continued. ”I think that - he’s a ritual.”

”He can’t be,” Martin reasoned, ”The Stranger already tried and it’s pretty much Tim’s fault it failed.”

”Martin, I think he _is_ that ritual, or at least whatever remains of it after the rest of it burned to the ground. What he just did, I’ve already felt it once; I was in the Unknowing as it was happening, and I - it was just like being back there.”

”I hope you’re just projecting,” Martin said truthfully, ”I hope this is just you wanting to be a little less lonely as the world’s first, and hopefully the very last, human ritual. Don’t make us go through that again. You’re telling me it never ended? That we didn’t _stop_ it? Well - that _you_ didn’t stop it. I wasn’t there, I was... burning papers and crying back at the Institute, really. Not my finest hour.”

”I think you played your part exceptionally well,” Jon huffed warmly, ”I think you really messed it up for Jonah for some time there.”

”I don’t know, Jon. Sometimes I feel like he planned the whole thing.”

”Well, it... felt good at the time.”

”You weren’t even there,” Martin sighed, pulling away from him. ”No, seriously, Jon. How would that even happen?”

”The same way that it happened to me,” Jon said non-committally, ”Very... carefully.”

”Well, who would have planned that? Were we _supposed_ to blow the thing up or what?” Martin asked, sounding sceptical.

”No, I think - I think this was more of a back-up plan, in case we did exactly what we ended up doing, and one of us would cave in the process. Maybe it was meant to be me, I... would have been a good candidate, wouldn’t I? Gertrude had done what we did before, Martin. It wasn’t exactly a novel plan at the time, rather just the best that we had at hand. We didn’t have much time, or... so we thought.”

”But the Stranger can’t complete the ritual now, can it?”

Jon thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. ”I don’t think so. No. I don’t think - I don’t think another ritual will be possible for anyone in a very, very long time - even if it was started before we succeeded at one. But... I don’t know what that means for us. For... Tim.”

”So what the hell do we do about it? Assuming you’re right, which I hope you’re _not_ , by the way, but... it would explain why they kept him hidden in a box for four years, and maybe why he’s no longer there now.”

Jon sighed.

”For now, I...” he hesitated for a moment before continuing: ”Let him sleep. I had to call upon the Watcher to stop him, and... it wasn’t what I had wanted to do.”

”Is he alright?” Martin asked in a tone of worry, his voice warmer than he’d perhaps expected.

”He’s... fine, I think, it - it was probably painful, but... I didn’t want him harmed. I just wanted him to _stop_.”

”I don’t think the Watcher really cared if he got hurt in the process, Jon.”

Jon nodded slowly.

”I know. I’ll - I’ll stay with him for a while. Could you change the fuse and get the lights working again?”

”Yeah. I’ll do that. Jon, I... this is - I’m worried.”

When Jon reached out his arms towards him, Martin walked back into him without hesitation. He wrapped his own arms around him and held him tightly for a while before leaning back to kiss him on the mouth.

”You’re right, by the way,” Jon spoke quietly against his lips, ”This would explain why they gave him to us, and... I might have just given them exactly what they wanted from it all.”

”Don’t,” Martin pleaded, ”Don’t talk anymore, I don’t want to hear it. Please.”

He kissed him again and then rested his head against his shoulder for some time, letting their bodies sway in place in quiet and feeling like a leech attached to Jon for strength and warmth. Then, sighing, he pulled back and forced himself to smile, as weak as it was.

”Fuse, right?” he said defeatedly.

”I’ll make you some tea,” Jon promised.  
  


* * *

When the lights were back on and Jon sat back down at the edge of the sofa to check on Tim, he could visibly see Tim’s body tensing for a moment, and then a shivering breath escaped the man along with what sounded like the bare bones of a chuckle.

”Jesus, you scared the _shit_ out of me,” Tim muttered - his voice sounded like he was just barely there. ”Do you mind, you fucking weirdo?”

Jon huffed warmly.

”Sorry,” he offered clumsily, ”I wanted to ask you how you’re feeling.”

”I’m - fine? I’m fine. I don’t know what just happened, but it hurt pretty bad,” Tim replied, his hand shaking as he moved it over his chest.

Jon examined him for a moment. Curiously enough, his shirt seemed to be just fine - good news for Martin, no doubt, but it didn’t really explain how just fifteen minutes earlier it had been torn by the body underneath it ripping open at its seams and spawning several sharp, long-fingered limbs that had all but clawed apart whatever defenses Jon had had to him in that half-way place between this realm and the Stranger’s own. Had it only ever existed there, and since the shirt belonged to this one, it had remained largely unaffected? He reached his arm out and took a light hold of the fabric, turning it one way to stretch the sides out, but there was nothing to see there. Tim scrunched up his face at the touch, however, and the sight amused Jon somewhat.

”What the hell are you looking for?” Tim asked him, sounding indignified by the search.

”Answers,” Jon replied truthfully, retreating his hand. ”It doesn’t look like I can find them as easily as I hoped. I’m sorry. God, how many times does that make in one night?”

”I’ve lost count and you should really stop apologising before it starts counting against you, you know,” Tim huffed.

”Still. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Tim shrugged.

”Thanks, I guess. No, really, don’t - don’t draw breath at me like you’re trying to cut me off. _Honestly_ , thank you. I - I really don’t know what happened but I know that I lost it there for a minute and I... needed help getting back, so... yeah. There.”

Jon hadn’t realised he’d ”drawn breath like he was about to cut Tim off”, but he shut his mouth and did nothing but nod in response. It took him several moments to remember that Tim couldn’t possibly see him do it, but by then it was too late to give a second answer; he’d noticed he kept doing that, kept forgetting to use his words, and he realised that this made him something of an arse.

”Could you at least tell me? You wanted me to show you. What did you find out?” Tim asked after the silence had stretched too far.

Jon sighed.

”I don’t know exactly what I found out yet. I have - a theory. What do you want to know?”

”How about we start at this: what the hell did I just do? Just - just tell me. No half-truths or... or I’ll do it again in front of a mirror. I don’t know,” Tim grimaced.

”Fine. Do you remember what the Unknowing felt like?”

”Well, yeah. Hard to forget.”

”And hard to remember,” Jon pointed out, to which Tim shrugged again. ”Let’s just say that you bent reality much like happened there. Everything was... _not_ _right_ for a while.”

”I felt so fucking powerful. Pardon my French, I realise I’m swearing a _lot_ and a guest should behave himself, but I just - that wasn’t fun, Jon.”

”No.”

”I don’t want to be able to do that. I don’t want that to be _in_ me, do you know what I mean?”

”I do. I... really do, Tim, it’s... I don’t like it either. I don’t like the things I can do, but I’ve accepted them. I’ve had to.”

”So how do I - how do I control it? How do I stop feeling like it controls me? Does it ever go away?” Tim asked, trying to pull himself up but his arms were shaking badly.

Jon shifted closer to him, pushing his own arm underneath the man’s body to support him until he’d climbed up from the sofa and could at least somewhat comfortably lean himself to it without Jon’s help. Then he moved back and rested his palms over his lap as Tim pulled his leg up to his chest, much like he’d been doing during the conversation before. Jon felt... _exposed_ when he wasn’t mirroring the pose, and without really thinking about it, he too pulled one leg up onto the sofa and wrapped an arm around it. They looked like they were shielding themselves from one another.

 _The Stranger and the Eye really don’t play nice with each other,_ Jon thought to himself; this wasn’t just the usual discomfort he felt around someone he wasn’t close with. This was... more than that, there was a tension there that he could never shake in Tim’s presence, a gnawing sensation of wrongness and danger that didn’t shift. It appeared that Martin didn’t feel it like that or perhaps at all - he seemed completely unaware that it was Jon’s very being that rejected Tim’s presence, not just his paranoia. And the way Tim had described him, it seemed at least that between them, the feeling was mutual.

”You just... learn, because if you don’t, it consumes you,” Jon answered once they were both settled in their defensive stances. ”I’m not sure if you can learn it alone, or if you need others to keep you human, but I know that I needed - well, I needed you and Martin to be my conscience when I couldn’t separate myself from what I was becoming anymore. Without the help of my friends, I’d be...”

He didn’t have the words for it. Tim did.

”A monster,” he finished instead, and Jon nodded, this time catching himself before the silence stretched too long.

”Yes,” he said, ”I... came very close to it once or twice.”

”Well, I know I don’t want that. I don’t want to be like them. Kill me if you have to, but that’s the last thing I will let myself become,” Tim said confidently, his full heart in the words as far as Jon could trust it.

It calmed him somewhat. It seemed unlikely that the Stranger could mock such sincerity, after all.

”Would you rather spend your night in the guest room than here?” Jon asked then, changing the subject. The truth was, he was tired, too; he was aching somewhere in his guts and his being felt bruised from fighting off whatever Tim had subjected him to.

”A real bed sounds nice, really - I don’t mean to disrespect your couch but it really did a number on my neck last night,” Tim said, then let out a short laugh; ”Or maybe that’s just, you know, coming back from the dead. Whatever. Yes, the guest room. I'd like that.”

”I’ll help you upstairs. If you’d like something to eat, we’ll bring you something there.”

”Nice - I get room service.”

”I don’t think you can make it to the kitchen _and_ upstairs in the same night, Tim,” Jon pointed out and Tim let out a theatrical sigh.

”Suppose you’re right. Damn, that... did really wear me out, didn’t it.”

”Just another part of learning to control your powers,” Jon said bitterly as he brought his fingertips to Tim’s arm, waiting for him to grab him for support. ”If you have a hangover tomorrow, don’t be too surprised.”

”All the downsides and I’m not even drunk yet,” Tim said melancholically, his grip of Jon’s arm very firm as he let himself be pulled up.

”I doubt you missed out on how good it feels,” Jon noted.

He helped Tim’s arm over his shoulder and for a moment his entire being rejected the proximity between them, but after the flash of revulsion had passed, all he felt was the warmth and softness of a body against his own, and the way Tim was hesitating to lean his full weight onto Jon, choosing his trembling legs to stand on instead. He held Tim’s arm a little bit tighter as they passed the doorway, trying to communicate to him that he didn’t need to pretend he was just fine doing this on his own - he clearly wasn’t.

”I didn’t,” Tim confessed quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. ”For a moment I felt... like a god. It felt...”

”Good?”

”Like - can I even say that? Christ, it felt like the kind of orgasm that’s just - all over at once. Sorry, but... it’s true.”

Jon choked on himself. He licked his lips uncertainly and chose to ignore the phrasing, instead taking them to the first step of the staircase. Behind them, Martin manifested in the doorway.

”Do you guys need... help?” he offered carefully.

”We’ll be fine, Martin,” Jon promised. ”Do you mind bringing him some food upstairs while I shower?”

”Not at all,” Martin said with a hint of a smile, ”Don’t use up all the hot water, alright?”

Jon sighed. They’d made it up four stairs.

”You’re one of those, huh?” Tim asked, his voice hinting at genuine curiosity.

”Not really,” Jon grunted, ”He’s just... giving me shit.”

Martin grinned, touched his lips and vanished from the doorway back towards the kitchen.


	5. Scent of Blood

* * *

It didn’t take Tim more than a moment to fall asleep - the strange bed didn’t matter, the fact that it was in another room that he didn’t know didn’t matter. He’d barely kicked off his jeans by the time he was already falling asleep, although he once stirred to some half-waking state at the sounds of someone brushing their teeth in the bathroom next door, and then at Jon and Martin’s voices as they spoke quietly in the corridor on the way to the bedroom, after which the rest of the night passed without interruption. 

He wasn’t certain what the time was when he woke up again. Wakefulness flooded him in shades of panic: he felt heavy in his limbs and his head was pounding and he couldn’t see when he tried to open his eyes and look around, and for an awful moment he thought something horrible had happened to him - perhaps an attack, or some kind of an illness, but he couldn’t think clearly. He was sitting upright by the time he started recalling where he was again, and... boy, Jon hadn’t been kidding about the hangover. He felt like... 

Nausea washed over him and he doubled over, holding himself still to keep himself from outright vomiting on the bed. He felt helpless, not knowing how to make his way to the bathroom - even a sink would have been better now than the clean, freshly changed sheets of the bed he’d slept in, but he didn’t know if he could find the two doors between himself and a sink before he’d lose the battle, so he didn’t budge. Eventually the wave passed and he could relax enough to breathe freely. He could make apart sounds from outside the house now: the rare song of a bird, a dog barking, and a few cars passing by. The room smelled strongly of the house, like the air inside it had been trapped in there for quite some time and it was now filled to the brim with the unique scent that still stood out to Tim; after all, he'd only been there for a day now. 

His mouth was dry and tasted of ashes. Shaking from the nausea still he moved his feet down on the floor and sought out the jeans he’d dropped there the night before, and once dressed, he painstakingly made his way to the door. He could hear the bed creaking in another room - someone was still asleep, if not both of the men who lived here, Tim couldn’t know, as it was so damn hard to tell the time by clues only, and he didn’t even have a phone on him. If someone was still sleeping but the birds were chattering, it could have been any hour from six in the morning to early afternoon; he had no clue how long Martin would sleep if no one woke him up for work, and on the other hand, even though he couldn’t hear much traffic he had little idea how far from central London, or London itself, the house was. Maybe they were surrounded by fields and pastures and he’d simply _assumed_ the house was in the city - as if he’d been listening to the traffic yesterday, or remembered the first bit about the address that had been given to the driver on the night he’d arrived there.

Eventually he did discover the bathroom door, but at once he found himself lost in his environment again now that the space he was in wasn’t a narrow corridor. Somehow he managed to hit his shin against the bathtub _and_ the toilet seat in two different locations, and even then when he did finally find the sink, he turned on the hot water first and struggled to turn it back off. He just wanted a drink, how hard could it be? When the water was finally cold again, he cupped his hands and drank a few mouthfuls before giving up and sitting down on the seat behind him.

Now he was there - great.

Carefully he extended his arm until he found the painted wall. He ran his fingers up it, looking for shapes or textures to tell him what was there. Instead he found a window, not far above where he was sitting, and he picked himself up to lean on the windowsill, the cold glass reflecting its temperature against his skin. He battled with the handle for a moment before managing to wrestle the window open. Context clues, he reminded himself as a cold breeze that smelled of mud and rainy air hit him; he couldn’t smell manure or nature, so they surely weren’t in the countryside.

No. The air smelled of London, of wet streets and dog shit and traffic. It also smelled of early morning, it had that particular freshness to it that only followed a chilly night, and Tim could hear the wind in a tree somewhere close by, or perhaps a bush with heavy leaves, and the shifting of grass beneath the window somewhere. How long had it been since he’d last breathed that air in freely? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the last peaceful morning like this that he’d stopped to smell and enjoy, and now he was standing in Jon’s loo to do it, which was possibly the worst place he could have imagined for the purpose. It hardly mattered, however. For a brief moment he battled the tears that burned in his eyes but he didn’t have the strength to stand up against them for long, and he rested his head against his arm and just let them come as they pleased. It did nothing to help the headache, but... something was loosening up in his chest like a knot undone, and once the tears stopped again, he could feel himself breathe easier. 

After closing the window, he found himself surrounded by the artifical citrus scent of cleaning agents and refresheners. He didn’t want to be there anymore, but at least he now knew where to find the door - still, somehow, he kicked the tub again on his way out, this time with a single toe that ached maddeningly as he limped down the corridor to its opposite end. Something was stirring in him, but he wasn’t sure what it was, or at least he couldn’t tell between excitement, anxiety and suicidal ideation. For all intents and purposes he was alone in the house. He wanted to know it now that he had the energy to do it, fuck the headache, fuck the heaviness in his limbs and fuck the nausea, so he lay his feet on the first step of the stairs and started climbing them down.

It took him a while to make it all the way downstairs, but once there, he ran his fingers over everything he could touch, knocking down things here and there but nevertheless managing to map out much of his surroundings, though parts of it were hard to decipher. At times he couldn’t tell if he’d gotten turned around until he found the stairway again, often with his foot before he found it with his hands that he was chronically holding too high or low for them to touch anything that he wanted to find. He stubbed his finger in a row of books in a bookshelf and that was where he found the first thing to knock over, too; a metallic figure of some kind that he couldn’t place, remember or feel out to form any particular shape, so he left it standing in the only pose that he could keep it upright and moved on. He found the downstairs bathroom rather effortlessly, too; the door was tucked underneath the stairs and the air there smelled more of a drain than upstairs, and he couldn’t find a window, but at least he found the liquid soap to wash his hands once he’d shoved them everywhere else in the room. He found the mirror, too, and in front of it he picked at his tangled, dry yet still _oily_ hair, and he wondered what it looked like - it felt a mess and he was sure it was, but he couldn’t tell what way it was standing up or if it was flat against his head everywhere, or if the tangled parts poked out from amongst the rest. All he could determine was that he desperately needed a bath, but he had no clue as to where to find a fresh towel, so it would have to wait.

The next thing he found was a small closet full of jackets, coats and canvas bags, and a chipped nail on his index finger where he’d discovered the back wall of it with too much force. Then he made his way to the front door, and after wrestling briefly with the chain and the lock, he was free.

Rain was still trickling down in concentrated drops of cold where he stood on the steps out. The wind was strong and bitter as it enveloped him in its embrace, its chilly claws attaching onto his neck and dragging down and around his arms, and it tore at his shirt and made it hang tightly around his side and hip. He let the door swing open until it hit the stopper with a thud, and with his fingertips following the door out, he stepped forwards. And forwards. And forwards. He descended a step and then another, and the door ended and his hand met nothing but the chilly October air now engulfing everything. His feet met the paved path, and then the grass, and then he stood there feeling a surge of fear so strong that it seemed to freeze him in place. There was nothing there, nothing at all as far as his arms could reach. The grass was wet and the ground solid beneath his feet but no matter where he reached he found nothing, and the vastness of it all buried its fangs into his chest and refused to let go. His muscles tensed and he was breathing funny, trying to retreat back towards the door he’d come from but for one horrifying moment he reached for nothing there too and it _wasn’t there_ anymore, and he couldn’t find it again. He waved his hand behind him, then turned around and tried the same with both arms, but he _really_ couldn’t find the door or the steps and there was nothing but the grass and the wind and the open space surrounding him. Swallowing down the rising panic, he lowered himself carefully to the ground and used his fingers to find the edge of the paved path again. It was still there, and he approached it, crouching until he’d made his way to it, and then he lowered his head down and hugged his knees and breathed in the air recycling into the little space his body had made for him, trying to decide which way to start walking. Only one way would lead back to the door, and the other...

Yeah. Freedom. Right.

”Tim?”

It was Martin’s voice. Tim couldn’t help the defeated chuckle that left his lips, muffled as it was in his little cave. He lifted his head up.

”Good morning,” he said with a wavering voice.

”What are you doing?” Martin asked cautiously.

”As you can clearly see, I’m escaping,” Tim told him. ”I’ve left the house and therefore I am now free.”

”You’re not wearing any shoes,” Martin pointed out, ”and you _are_ wearing a dress. Come back inside, please.”

Slowly, Tim lifted himself back up from the ground. His legs were shaking as he reached his hand out towards Martin’s voice, and not long after their fingers met in the middle and Martin took a firm hold of his hand to guide him back to the door. It really hadn’t been too far after all, just in the opposite direction from the one that Tim had been facing.

”Did you... get lost?” Martin asked, his voice carefully masking whatever emotion he was feeling underneath.

”Maybe,” Tim admitted.

”Did you intend to leave the house?”

”I... I don’t know what I wanted to do, if I’m honest with you,” he chuckled, ”Look, I... I can’t explain it. I just... I found the door and I wanted to go out. That’s about as far as that logic got me. Then I couldn’t find the door anymore and, well, now you’re here.”

”I’m sorry,” Martin said, ”That sounds awful.”

”What time is it?” Tim asked, not very keen on explaining his adventure further.

”Seven,” Martin told him, ”Jon’s alarm went off and I was getting up when I noticed the draft.”

They were inside now, and Tim pulled the door closed behind him, managing after a minor struggle to even return the chain in place. That was that, he thought distantly, and a certain heaviness settled in his chest. He really couldn’t leave this place - not even if he’d chosen to. It was worse than being held prisoner by force.

”Are you two quite alright?” Jon’s voice joined the now paused conversation from upstairs.

”Sure,” Martin called out to him, ”And it’s your turn to make breakfast.”

”I’m coming downstairs.”

Tim could tell Martin was looking at him.

”I won’t tell him if you don’t want me to,” Martin said quietly, ”He can’t _see_ you, so he doesn’t know.”

”Thank you.”

”Yeah. No problem.”  
  


* * *

”You’re going to be late,” Martin reminded Jon, his spoon scraping at the bottom of his cup of banana yogurt. He eyed the man from under his brows examiningly as Jon placed down his mug of coffee and sighed.

”I’m not going in today,” he said, meeting Martin’s gaze.

Martin, in turn, lifted his head; he sucked his spoon clean and dropped it in the cup.

”Yeah? They need you, you know. You keep that place running now - remember?”

”I know, but I couldn't really focus yesterday, and I thought... this is more important right now,” Jon explained carefully. His eyes moved to Tim and he watched him eat for a while in silence, and Martin did the same until Tim lifted his head, alerted by the silence around him.

”You’re both watching me, I can tell,” he said uncomfortably, ”Stop it, yeah? I can’t see it but I can still _feel_ it.”

Martin felt an urge to reach out to him, to touch his hand, but his eyes darted to Jon and he couldn’t... bring himself to do it. It wasn’t - it didn’t mean anything, but it felt _wrong_ to touch Tim in front of Jon. It was a concerning thought, one that Martin really didn’t want to examine any further, so he focused on his cup of tea instead very, very intently until the urge had passed. Jon, on the other hand, had never stopped watching Tim, and suddenly Martin remembered that he’d given him permission to keep a watch on _him_ \- his _feelings_ \- and a dread settled in his stomach; what if he was still watching? What if he’d seen that flicker of - of guilt? It didn’t mean anything, he’d just... he’d just felt it. He couldn’t help it.

Damn it.

Slowly, Jon’s gaze moved back to him. Martin smiled awkwardly and avoided looking into his eyes.

”Martin, can I...” Jon started hesitantly, pulling Martin’s gaze to him by what felt like force.

”Can you what?” Martin asked, his voice deceivingly normal.

”There’s no way Tim can train with me. I’m... too strong, and I believe that our alignments and our _history_ make it rather impossible for us to not move from ’training’ straight to ’attempted murder’,” Jon explained, and Martin could hear the implicit question between the lines.

He sighed.  
”You need a punching bag,” he translated.

”Essentially, yes,” Jon confirmed.

”Hey,” Tim intervened, ”I’m not going to - what are you suggesting? That I’ll do what I did yesterday but to _Martin_ instead? No way.”

”No,” Jon told him firmly, ”You won’t do what you did yesterday. If you do anything even remotely like it, I _will_ stop you.”

”Well, good, because that’s not going to happen.”

”So... what?” Martin asked, feeling rather exposed in the middle. Like... like cheese in a trap, really.

”He needs to practice,” Jon continued, leaning back in his chair and lifting his mug to his lips. After drinking from it, he placed it back down and shifted it on the table so that the ear was facing him. ”It’s in all of our best interest if he learns to control his powers, both so that what happened last night won’t happen again in circumstances where it can’t be as easily stopped, as well as...”  
He sighed, hesitated and then leaned back towards the table.  
”He _will_ need to feed.”

”I’m still here, you know?” Tim reminded him dryly, but Jon barely glanced at him.

”We can’t take him with us as long as he doesn’t know how to navigate his powers,” Jon continued addressing Martin instead, ”It’d be dangerous to us, but also to him, and we’d risk drawing in unwanted attention.”

”Are you saying he needs to feed on... a person? I mean -”

”Hey, wow,” Tim interrupted, and Jon motioned him to be quiet but if he felt the air moving between them from the gesture, he didn’t read it either way. ”What did I just tell you last night? I’m not going to hurt _anybody_. That includes Martin, but it’s _not_ limited to him. Alright? I’m not a fucking monster.”

”You _are_ a monster,” Jon snarled, ”And you need to face it eventually. You’re not going to kill anybody, but if we set you against someone with real power now, you’ll be as good as dead.”

”Then so be it!”

”Because that’s not what you fear the most?” Jon asked, and Martin crossed his hands on the table in front of him, his head bowed.

”Here we go again,” he muttered, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him whatsoever.

”So I’m scared of dying, big deal, who isn’t?” Tim asked sharply in turn, leaning forwards, his arm colliding with his cup of coffee. ”That doesn’t mean I’m going to lower myself to _your_ level.”

”Enough!” Martin snapped, and both of them turned to his direction as if they’d entirely forgotten he existed in the first place. ”Enough, both of you. I’m not having this at the table. If you want to wrestle it out then go somewhere else, _please._ ”

Tim tapped the table with his palms, sending vibrations through all of their drinks.

”Fine,” he huffed coldly, ”Defend him, then.”

”I’m _not_ defending him, Tim,” Martin growled, ”I want to drink my damn tea without listening to two grown men _bickering_ over breakfast.”

Jon gave him a betrayed look that made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach, but he stood by his words; they were both acting like children and he didn’t want any part of it.

”It’s fine,” Martin said then as the silence stretched, lowering his gaze to his tea. He picked up the spoon and ran it through the drink to give his hands something to do. ”I’m fine with you training with me. I trust you and - and I trust Jon to know when to stop us if it goes too far.”

”I’m _not_ going to hurt you,” Tim said in a heavy voice, and Martin could hear his anger still burning close to surface.

”You won’t always have a choice, it’s just... the way things are,” Martin told him with a crooked, joyless smile.

Tim was still looking his way, his blind eyes moving between the tip of Martin’s nose and the shape of his ear, close enough to his eyes to feel like he was really seeing him. Meanwhile, Martin’s own eyes met Jon’s, who’d stopped looking like a kicked puppy and exchanged that look for one of reserved anxiety instead. He didn’t enjoy conflict any more than Martin did, but... he found himself surrounded by it more often than most people.

”Have _you_ done it, hm?” Tim asked him, the edge in his voice still sharp even though he was clearly trying to conceal it.

”Actually, yes,” Martin told him with a sigh, dropping his gaze once more to his tea. ”I have. I spent one entire apocalypse feeding on the fear and suffering of other people, people I didn’t know, people who didn’t deserve it. Lonely people. People who didn’t have anybody, or who thought that they didn’t, or who were afraid they would lose everyone who mattered to them. People just like me.”

As he spoke, Jon reached his hand to touch his across the table, and Martin let him, spreading his fingers to interlace them with his.

”Neither of us is innocent,” he continued then, ”I don’t think anyone who gets corrupted by one of the Fears is. I don’t think it’s a choice that we get to make. You just have to accept it. It’s - like Jon said, you have to make peace with what you are, or it’ll kill you, or worse, it’ll kill somebody else, maybe someone you love or else someone loved by another. The only way to... to make the right choices from the ones we do get is to know what you are and what your limits are, and _accept_ that things will never be the same, and that you’ll never be human again. You can try to pretend that you are, that nothing changed, but you can’t fight your true nature forever. It’s just... the way things are, Tim, and I’m sorry - I really am, but there’s no way out of it now.”

”So what, I just - I - what? What do you want me to do?” Tim asked, turning towards Jon instead.

”Practice,” Jon said, his voice colourless but calm again, ”You told me you did it yesterday while Martin wasn’t watching you. Do it while he watches. Learn to control yourself. Learn to target your powers, learn to focus them and utilize them.”

”The only thing I did yesterday was changing myself. It had nothing to do with Martin.”

”Show me, then,” Martin prompted, turning in his seat. ”I’m really curious about that, actually.”

Tim let out a sharp sigh. Then he turned to face him, too.

”Fine. Because fuck breakfast, right?”

”Don’t,” Martin muttered under his breath, ”Don’t fuck the breakfast.”

Jon lowered his face into his hands, his long fingers rubbing at his scalp underneath his hair.

”I’m sorry,” Martin added nervously, his voice more audible now.

”Thanks for that image,” Tim sighed. He, too, had dragged his hand over his eyes and nose but Martin was rather certain that it had less to do with his words than Jon’s reaction did. ”Alright - I have a headache already, so what could go wrong? Fuck me.”

Martin opened his mouth, then shut it again. He _was_ nervous, and he needed to be quiet.

”Okay. Fuck it. I don’t - fine. You want me to do this?” Tim continued, his posture shifting as he was gathering his confidence.

”Yes,” Jon said into his palms, finally dragging them across his face and lifting his gaze again. ”Take control of it, focus on him, and try to remember who you are.”

Tim nodded. Martin was watching him, and at first it didn’t seem like anything was happening, but... when he finally lowered his hand, he wasn’t - he wasn’t the same. Martin jumped, his tea splashing in the cup beside him as his elbow bumped into it; he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but having his friend remove his hand from his eyes and reveal someone he couldn’t recognise hadn’t been that thing. In fact, he couldn’t... he was sure he was seeing two eyes, a nose and a mouth, and the shape of the head was the same and he could still see Tim's hair, but - there were no facial features he could focus on, nothing he could truly read or remember. It felt like looking at the face of a blank mannequin, even though he was _certain_ there were eyes there... but were there? He squinted, his heart racing a little faster in his chest, and then he shuddered, turning his gaze away.

Tim did the same; he lowered his head and drank his coffee, and when Martin gave him another glance, he was back to his usual self - nothing _strange_ about his face at all.

”Okay... that was weird,” Martin mumbled between two large, warm sips of tea, ”That was... yeah. Alright, then.”

”It’s hard to stop it, isn’t it?” Jon asked quietly, and Tim nodded stiffly.

”It feels... really good. Like I need to have more, like - like stopping it hurts,” he said, his voice shaking a little from strain.

”You see how easy it is to go down that path and not look back? That’s why you _have_ to learn to control yourself, and you can’t do it if you’re starving.”

Tim nodded again. The thought didn’t seem appealing to him, but at least he wasn’t fighting it now. It was too much, however; Martin sighed and reached out for him, his hand landing on top of Tim’s. He didn’t have it in him to look at Jon, but there wasn’t anything wrong with this, was there? They were friends, after all - he had the right to comfort his friend. Tim didn’t react, but it meant that he wasn’t pulling his hand away either; instead he lifted his cup again with his free one and drank.

”Alright,” he said then once his cup had hit the table once more. ”Fine. I’ll practice. But I won’t feed on a stranger. I don’t care what it takes or how much I have to watch myself, I won’t go there.”

”It’s your choice,” Jon told him, and Martin nodded although of course Tim couldn’t see it. For him, Martin simply held his hand tighter before pulling his own back.

”Then you’ll have to go harder on me,” Martin chuckled submissively, ”but it’s fine, really, I’m... I can take it. We’ll get you ready.”

”Thanks. Really, I...” Tim’s voice tapered off.

”Don’t thank us for this,” Jon told him, ”The only other choice is to kill you. We... _I_ owe you more than that.”

Tim lifted his head and gazed in Jon’s general direction, swaying a little. Then he nodded, and without a word, he returned to eating his breakfast. Jon, meanwhile, caught Martin’s eyes, and for a moment Martin felt like he was falling through the floor.

”I love you,” he mouthed silently, and Jon smiled as he turned away. He’d have to do better for Jon. Whatever it was that he was starting to feel for Tim, it... it had to go.  
  


* * *

  
”Here’s your towel,” Martin said, pushing a folded soft, thick towel into Tim’s arms. ”If you need anything, just - let us know, alright?”

Tim nodded. He sought out the handle of the door and started closing it between them.

”Thanks, Martin. And - sorry, already,” he said when there was just a little gap left.

”For what?”

”For - what I’ll have to do to you later,” Tim explained. It weighted heavy on him. It was eating him alive, and he just had to get the words out. ”I don’t want this.”

Martin sighed.

”It’s... alright, really,” he said, the direction of his voice shifting slightly as he adjusted his footing. ”Jon will be there, and - it’s like he said, you have to learn somehow. It’s either me or - or a civilian, somewhere.”

”You’re not that different,” Tim pointed out.

”I know, but - at least I _know_ , right? I know what to expect. I’ve been through it before. I just... I’m in a good place, Tim. I can take a bit of a beating without it ruining my life now. I know the last time we talked I was - different, more normal - but I’ve seen and done things that... I don’t really know how to talk about. I’ve accepted that my life is like this now,” Martin chuckled quietly and Tim could hear his shirt shift, perhaps from a shrug. ”It doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t feel wrong. I don’t feel like I’m a victim. And I want to help you - yeah, that’s... that’s it. I want you to be alright, too.”

”You’re a good man, Martin.”

”Take your bath, Tim. And... and just - let us know if you need something.”

Tim nodded. Then, finally, he closed the door fully; he hesitated a little before locking it, but he did want his privacy, especially when he couldn’t even trust himself to be able to tell if it was invaded upon. Not that he ever really had any privacy with two servants of the Eye in the same house with him, but... the illusion still mattered. It was funny to think of _Martin_ that way: he was more than used to Jon poking his nose into matters and lives that were none of his concern, but to know that Martin thought of himself as a _monster_ of the Eye as well was... it didn't sit well with Tim's image of him. He'd never considered himself that, although he'd had his fears when he'd realised he could never run away from the Institute without getting ill, and yet he'd added that hatred into his growing list of things he hated about the _Institute_ , not himself. It was easier to hate the Institute than the thing it had turned him into, and he'd never wanted to look deeper than the surface on it. The thoughts had been uninvited visitors at night at best, and he'd rejected them every way they came to him. But Martin wasn't in any denial. He was embracing it, and... maybe he was right. In any case, Tim thought with a sigh, that probably made Martin braver than he was.

He slid off his belt and his jeans but hung on for a minute to the long shirt that he'd grown quite comfortable in by then as he started to pour water into the tub. It took a little effort to find where everything was, but maybe he was getting used to that, too, or at least it wasn't too difficult inside a house where he could at any moment trust that should he ask for help... not that he _was_ asking for help. His pride got in the way, didn't it? Useless thing, really, but the thought of admitting that he couldn't handle something by himself - it had been bad enough to get lost just outside the front porch. The thought still terrified him, however, no matter how much shame he felt for it, or had felt when Martin had found him there. The manner in which the distance around him continued forever with nothing to hold onto... the bathroom was secure and small in comparison, everything in its logical place. The shampoo bottles, the shower - once he'd placed his towel on the floor next to his clothes, they too were where he could find them with ease. Was that how his world was going to be like from now on? Small rooms with things in an exact order. Hell, he might as well move in with Jon permanently; even if what the man considered "order" was often an overreaction at best, Tim couldn't help but breathe out in relief every time he found something in the house to follow the exact Jon logic he'd struggled to stand up to for years. Nothing ever moved places. Everything was always where it _needed_ to be. Even the kitchen scissors and every sock in the household, probably - not that Tim had access to either.

Finally he lifted his shirt and squirmed out of it like a maggot, trying to ignore the throbbing feeling of dread that followed the very thought of finding himself naked. He hoped that it would fade once he'd be submerged in the hot water, but no; even as he slid under the surface, the water truly hot enough to remind him that he was still alive indeed, he could feel the discomfort meeting him like he'd mixed it into his bath on purpose. He was too long for the tub, anyway; if he wanted to submerge his face, his legs were poking out and over the edge. Martin had to hate it there, he thought. Jon might have just been cozy, the exact size and shape these things were made for - and yet it was difficult to imagine him ever getting comfortable there, or _anywhere_. 

Tim didn't like the way the water was touching him. That awareness had been growing in him since the moment his consciousness had stirred within his form in that attic that had smelled of sawdust and mothballs, but where he'd before enjoyed nothing quite like a touch on his skin, he could barely stand it now. He wanted to love being touched and embraced like he'd always done before, but even underneath the relief every little brush and hold gave him, he couldn't escape the fear of it finding something that wasn't supposed to be there, and the water was merciless in that way as it crept into every little crevice and scar of his body, marking it all. He could feel... _something_ shifting in him like a bone sliding out of place when he breathed there, just _breathed_ , and it felt like there were living things inside his body, or other parts of him that still moved with the rest of him even though they were trapped underneath his skin. He had a horrific feeling that if he'd tried, he could have moved these parts on purpose, but instead he stayed very still and tried to forget about them - tried to forget about the shapelessness of him that he felt hiding just inside this costume of a man he was still wearing, and would wear forever, he thought, as he saw no appeal in letting it ever fall apart again.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself up and bent over so that he could wash his hair; water cascaded onto him from above and he hoped he wasn't making a huge mess on the floor, as he really couldn't tell when the water would start overflowing from inside the tub with any real accuracy. He'd only hear it once and it would be too late, with water splashing onto the floor as he moved... but being able to wash off the years from his form felt heavenly, no matter how uncomfortable or alien he felt inside his own skin, and no matter how big of a mess he might have been making of the rest of the room. With care and all the time afforded to him by the water slowly cooling around him he untangled the knots in his hair with the help of some shampoo and water, running his fingers through it over and over again until he could do so without resistance. The hair itself often came out of the knots damaged and rough, but it was at least free; nothing a few years of conditioning wouldn't fix, right? He couldn't even read the labels on the bottles beside him. Did this house even have conditioner? Probably - Jon and Martin were both too damn well-adjusted not to use conditioner. Funny thing about Jon, really. He did seem _well-adjusted_ now. Not _comfortable_ or _happy_ under any given circumstances, but - adjusted, adapted. Last time he'd seen Jon, the man had been a damn mess. So had he. So had Martin, and _everyone_ , really. Everyone except Elias, who'd been the very definition of _adjusted_. A shudder ran through Tim's body. The truth was, he was afraid to ask about the others. Did he even want to know about them? Did he want to risk the explicit knowledge that they hadn't made it through, or the ache of knowing who had and who hadn't? It was better not to ask, not to know; that way, they were still all out there somewhere, at least to _him_.

A car rushed by on the street below, and Tim remembered the window there on the wall, and he wished he could have lifted his gaze up to it and watched the sky or - or tree branches, or... whatever was visible through it. Not being able to see made him feel so damn detached from everything, and so alone at all times; he wondered if Martin was feeding on that feeling, too, that isolation that he felt. Probably. Wasn't that what they did now? All of them? Fed on each other like starving ticks. He knew Jon had, at least; he'd felt the way he'd torn pieces off of Tim with his focus the night before. He wondered if it still felt as good to Jon as it had felt to him, and another thought followed suit: if Jon hadn't stopped him - would Tim have killed him? He remembered the desire to tear into him all too well, all the years of frustration growing into resentment and hatred, and that wonderful sense of _victory_ and _justice_ when he'd had him at his mercy, finally hurting for all the things he'd done, all the things he'd let happen, all the things he'd put them all through. He didn't recognise himself from it. Yes, he'd _hated_ Jon, but those feelings had... they really had subdued, hadn't they? He could bear being around him again. Sometimes, he even felt _comfortable_ around Jon, even though that particular wonder never lasted for long and Jon was damn good at making sure of that. He'd seen worse things these past years than Jon. He'd tasted a fate he couldn't have imagined in the relative _comfort_ of the Institute. Hell, in comparison to the treatment he'd gotten with the Stranger, the Institute had protected him and kept him cozy - at the very minimum, no one had performed unnecessary surgeries on his human parts there, not _once_ , or stuffed him with straws and wax, or cut him open just to see what made him tick, or else the sheer unadultered fun of it. And yet, wasn't this all the Institute's fault? If he could have just quit that awful place - none of this would have ever happened to him. Was it really that simple?

He kept bending down until his face was between his knees in the water and his living ribs were churning from his attempts to go further. He reached his hands down to his toes and rubbed them, feeling the seams under his skin although he now knew that they were invisible to others watching him. It made him smile, bitterly, as he ran his hands up his legs, up those same seams, and felt every disfigured part of him all the way up to his face... at least they'd spared most of the face, hadn't they? He continued feeling his way around his features, and couldn't help the laugh. No, they... they hadn't, had they? Not really. It was attached in one or two pieces, but... that was really it, wasn't it? It was still _attached_ , sewed in place like everything else on him. He really wasn't anything more than a freakish doll, just like the rest of them - sewed and stuffed like a Raggedy Ann. If someone had opened one of these seams... what would they find? What was he _really_ made of? Not snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails, that was for damn sure.

He felt nauseous again, and with that he turned off the shower and let some water out of the tub before climbing out of it. It felt good to cover his shape with the towel, and it was luxurious and large and he spent quite some time hugging it just for its texture and warmth; after all, was anyone really waiting for him to finish? A ridiculous thought entered his head: he wanted to stay here forever with the smell of a factory lemon, which was really fitting, as it was about as authentic as he was as a human person. They'd get together well enough in a little while. He squeezed his hair into the towel, and with the towel then resting upon his shoulders, he messed with it until it felt like he'd always worn it out of the shower. It'd dry into something of a bedhead look, and that was really all he wanted - for it to no longer feel like a crow's nest on top of his head, but like something that wind would catch on if he'd ever put his feet outside the door again.

In five more minutes he'd left the bathroom, and in fifteen... well, what had he expected, a nice afternoon nap? He wasn't getting one. Jon wouldn't let him. 

"I didn't know you were out yet," Jon told him, standing somewhere in the middle of the stairs that Tim was sitting on the top step of, his fire like a portal to someplace worse than here.

Tim shrugged carelessly.  
"I didn't think to announce myself," he stated truthfully in response, "I wasn't aware we were in a hurry."

"I'd rather have this out of the way."

"I'd rather not do it at all, but you already know that, don't you?" Tim said dryly.

Jon sighed.  
"I know."

"Does that bother you? Knowing everything."

"I - I don't know _everything_ ," Jon said tensely, "Not you, for example."

"Yeah, well. Sorry for that. You could always show me the door if it gets to be too much. Oh, wait: no, you can't - but you _could_ just kill me," Tim said coolly, but even as he spoke, he knew that his frustration wasn't really directed at Jon.

"Why are you so -"  
Jon cut himself off and drew a deep breath instead.  
"I don't want to fight. Whatever it is that's on your mind, it can wait."

"Sure it can," Tim said with a cold laugh, "It always could, couldn't it."

Jon hesitated.

_Touché_ , Tim thought quietly. He let the silence grow. Whether Jon deserved the hostility or not... it felt _good_ to let it out somehow.

"Martin's waiting," Jon finally said, changing the subject.

"Right."

Tim was surprised to feel Jon's fingertips against his arm, although he'd heard him moving closer: it was getting more difficult to tell how far exactly he was, as his light now kept pulsating and changing form. Still, he lifted his arm and let Jon guide him down the stairs, and... God, did it really have to be this way? The warmth, the closeness of another person made him feel out of breath and so tight in his chest he could have cried for it. And all that time... underneath his skin, he wanted to be away from it, and that particular desire hadn't gotten any better from the bath - quite the contrary, as it had grown nearly unbearable just like his aversion to what he was now very aware he'd become. He tried to drown that feeling as they descended; it wouldn't do him any good to be this irritable before he was set face to face with Martin. Jon might have earned himself a few sharp words but Martin hadn't, and Tim was afraid that he'd have much more than just _words_ in store for him if he'd let himself lose focus.

Jon led him down the corridor and back into the living room, but the furniture had changed since the last time Tim had been there. The couch was still in place, but the table beside it had all but vanished, and yet he nearly tripped on its ghost from the sheer expectation of being led _into_ it when Jon didn't stop where he'd expected him to. Then there was another hand taking his; he submitted to the two of them moving him about until they were happy with where he stood, at which point Jon's hand left his arm but Martin's went nowhere, simply held his hand gently in its grip to let him feel the distance between them. Had he ever stopped to appreciate how kind Martin had always been? Had he really had the time to appreciate it? He did now; he desperately wanted this hold to last forever, and so it seemed to be, as Martin still wasn't pulling his hand away. All that hesitation within him aside, all the guilt he felt for it... he still _wanted_ to be held.

"Nice look," Martin said in a gently teasing voice. 

Tim ran his free hand over his messy hair and tilted his head both ways, saying nothing. He could feel Jon's presence a short distance behind them, and he heard him taking up a seat somewhere nearby. It made him look, though of course he could tell very little from the information he got from that glance. Slowly, defeatedly, he turned back to where he expected Martin's face to be. How tall was he, again? How tall _exactly?_ Where would his eyes be if Tim wanted to look into them? He couldn't remember.

"Jon wants to test something first, so - don't be too alarmed," Martin said.

"Great, what are we testing that's going to alarm me?" Tim asked cautiously, and he held Martin's hand a little tighter. For comfort, or - he wasn't sure. He just _wanted_ to. It felt good. Good in a different way than sucking someone's fear out of them. A normal way, a way he could still remember from before.

"You'll have to let go. It... won't work if you don't," Martin said, and his voice sounded rather amused, almost like he was joking.

Tim lifted his brows, tilted his head again and let his hand slip out of the hold and down onto the edge of his pocket. He could still feel his warmth lingering on his skin, but only for a moment; it was only after it was gone that he noticed something changing in his vision, even if it was ever so slightly at the time - he lifted his gaze, straightened up and squinted at the faint glow that shimmered in and out of view.

"Anything?" Jon's voice asked from behind him, "Humour me."

"I - yeah. Martin?"

"He's... unavailable _._ "

"Okay, yeah, what the hell does that mean, exactly?" Tim asked, reaching his hand out again. Martin was still _there_... but he could feel a shiver of emptiness within him when he touched him. A dread of... something. A discomfort inside his head, like... being alone in a strange place. Like having forgotten something important. He tried to call Martin's name again, touch him, but nothing happened - nothing, except that the glow was growing stronger. He cleared his throat and stepped away.

"I - I can see _something_ ," he told Jon then, "An outline of light, like yours. Well, I'm not... sure if it's light, really, it's just... I can see something. It's really hard to describe, alright?"

"That is interesting," Jon noted, and Tim wanted to throw something at him.

The light was fading again. For the third time, Tim reached into it, tried to define its outline with his hand, but was met with Martin's instead; Martin took a gentle hold of his hand and brought it back down.

"Well?" Martin asked, a little breathlessly.

"He can see you," Jon told him.

"Can someone explain? Please?" Tim asked, and Martin let out a small laugh.

"I can connect to the Lonely at will," he said, "I kind of - disappear, if I go deep enough - it's just what it sounds like. Anyway, turns out that you can sense that. That's -"

"Don't say 'interesting'," Tim sighed, and he could practically hear Martin's confusion radiating from him. To his defense, however, he didn't finish his sentence.

”But it’s good,” Martin said instead, sounding carefully excited; ”It’s good, right?”

Jon moved.

”It’s promising,” he said, his voice much more held-back in terms of emotion - in fact, it had barely any in it to begin with.

Martin tightened his hold of Tim’s hand again. It was possible to hear him smiling from the way he was breathing, it was tinting every exhale he let out.

”So - technically,” Tim started, throwing half a look somewhere in Jon’s direction, ”I can sense other powers? That means I can fight them, right?”

”Technically, yes,” Jon repeated. ”You’re still at a disadvantage.”

”But so are they,” Tim argued, ”You can’t really hide from me when you don’t know what you’re trying to hide. I can see _you_ past most obstacles, anyway. I can tell the shape of the room by what shapes block you out and what don’t. Even when something does - I can sense you past it. So... if something wants to play hide and seek with me, I’ll probably win.”

”You’ll still need our help,” Martin reasoned, ”Learning to _use_ this is different from just having it in you.”

”I guess?” Tim said. ”Plus, I can’t really keep a look on my back at all times, either, so... strength in numbers and all that.”

”Yeah. And - well - I think we’ll have to do that in the field, I can’t really... I can’t really be not here and here at the same time, and Jon would just... well, you tried that already, and it didn’t go very well,” Martin said.

Tim nodded. Behind him, Jon moved again.

”You need to know your weapons, too,” he said quietly, and Tim’s stomach dropped.

He could feel Martin hold his hand tighter again, as if knowing that the words had made him feel ill, or perhaps he was nervous himself. It didn’t matter; Tim responded in kind, and to his surprise, Martin ran his thumb over his hand a few times in comforting strokes, and the feeling made him feel out of breath again.

”Do you know how to use them?” Jon asked, seemingly oblivious to the moment shared in front of him.

”No,” Tim admitted before he could so much as really think about it, ”I don’t know anything. All I know is - I can do whatever I did yesterday. That’s it.”

”Do you _know_ what you did yesterday?” Jon continued pressing him.

Slowly, Tim shook his head.  
”No,” he said again. "You never gave me a straight answer."

”Well, then. Martin?”

Martin sighed, beginning to undo the contact between himself and Tim, who let go of him only hesitantly.

”I’m ready,” Martin promised. ”Are you? Tim?”

Tim shook his head.

”I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said honestly. He could feel Martin’s heart beating, somehow, from across the short distance between them: he was already afraid. Tim could... he could _sense_ it somehow. The worst thing was that he couldn’t deny, even to himself, how much he liked it; how it made his skin crawl with anticipation, with _hunger_ that couldn’t be sated in the flesh.

”It’s not,” Jon said dryly, ”but it’s the best plan we have. We don’t have a choice - _you_ don’t.”

”I’m alright with it,” Martin reminded them both, and perhaps himself; ”So just - just do it, alright? Think of me as an enemy. What would you do if you knew I’d hurt you if you didn’t act first?”

It was hard to push aside the hunger. If this wasn’t a normal living room in daylit London, and if Martin wasn’t Martin, then could he have used that to drive him onwards? It was no use recalling his prior experiences with the Fears - all he’d been then was human, their _prey._ Tim lowered his head and breathed in. He wasn’t prey anymore, though, was he? He would never be prey again. Maybe he didn’t want to be a predator either, but they’d _made_ him one. He hadn’t chosen this. He was just making the best of what had been handed to him. Live as one of _them_ or die; that was the choice he'd been handed. He wanted to laugh. Sure. He’d live like this, then. Make them suffer for what they’d done to Danny, for what they'd done to _him_. It had been a mistake to have given him any power at all... but, well, that wasn’t his concern, now was it? It was theirs now. Martin’s, really; Tim tried to focus on him. He didn’t deserve his anger, but Tim had so much of it inside now that he was digging for it, it really felt like it had only been growing these past years he’d had to swallow it and submit to his fears instead. He’d lost focus - who was he supposed to hate now? He’d lost _everything_ \- himself amongst those things. He’d never have it back. He’d never have _himself_ back. What did it matter what he did with these powers? What did it matter who he hurt with them? 

Yes, he could sense Martin’s fear, but he could sense something else underneath it. The glow had alerted him to it, perhaps, or else his focus now was doing the job for him, but he could tell that Martin wasn’t... strictly speaking _human_ either. He had the marks upon him, the corruption; it was subtle and under the skin, not like his marks or Jon’s that were plain for everyone to see, but they were there. He wasn’t human. He had the same hunger that Tim had within him, didn’t he? The same urge to hurt others. Maybe he enjoyed it, too. Tim already knew that Jon did, but had he ever doubted that? 

No - he wasn’t supposed to focus on Jon. God, did he _want_ to focus on Jon... tear him to pieces, just like he’d thought yesterday. The smell and feel of his blood... but Jon wasn’t his target now. 

He could feel himself changing. His body was shifting around him, those _other parts_ of him were moving again, his ribs snapping, his skin making way for what was underneath. It felt so good - he could feel the world changing around him, if ever so subtly, and the rivers of fear that flowed within it were all directed at him, and he was feeding upon them, drawing them into himself until he felt drunk on the pleasure and it was sparking all over his being and somewhere much deeper inside than he could have ever expected. There was no interruption now, no eyes staring into his core, no pain from being known, just the growing sensation of... of power, of potential, and - God. _God_ , he wanted to have more of it. He wanted to smell blood as it flowed from wounds that he’d created, he wanted to shift flesh as his own had been shifted, he wanted to mold something new out of that _being_ in front of him. Nothing else mattered.

He stepped forwards.


	6. Hurt/Comfort

* * *

Martin’s heart was racing fast. He tried to hold himself back from breaking apart there, and he held his breath to keep himself from whimpering, but there was little he could do to rein back the fear itself that was flooding him like an ocean. Jon had stood up, but he was so far behind - and between them stood something that Martin couldn’t recognise, in the midst of the room spinning, blurring out of view. It was _opening_ , there were cracks in what had once been a human body that were spawning limbs, long, inhuman appendages with fingers ending in sharp tips or claws made out of plastic, wax and wood, pieces that were covered in old, rusty-looking blood or something else, and the face was... there was no face, at all, it was all just a maddening mask of unrecognisable features that Martin couldn’t hold onto for long enough to make sense of them before they’d shifted again. And the fear he felt, it was real: it was terror like he’d felt many times before but never in this place, and rarely with Jon so near him. Even in the worst of their moments together at least they’d been, well, together, and it had made it all better - but something about this _creature_ standing between them was cutting Martin off from so much as feeling Jon nearby, and it felt like he was much, much further from him than he should have been. Like reality was breaking between them, blocking Jon out and leaving him alone with... whatever the monster before him was.

He closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that he was _safe_ \- Jon wouldn’t let anything happen to him in their own living room. Surely Tim didn’t want to hurt him either, but... was this being really Tim at all? What if it had never been, and they’d let something else inside their house, and... no, he wasn’t going there. He wasn’t going to let the fear control him like that.

Before he’d fully convinced himself that he was brave enough to open his eyes again, he could feel a sharp pain in his ribs on both sides, a pain that all but forced him to look even if he really didn’t want to see: his eyes went wide and he took a firm hold of the... were they arms that held him? All he could feel was sickeningly warm, slick plastic underneath his grip, and the fingertips were burying into his flesh - he could feel blood running down his sides, soaking his shirt.

”Tim? Enough,” he breathed out in a shivering voice. ”Enough. You’re hurting me.”

The grip tightened, and one of those sharp, long fingers broke through... something - something in Martin’s body gave way to it, letting it sink deeper into him. The pain was blinding, but the fear was worse, it made him dizzy and he couldn’t hold himself back from a sob and a gasping breath, and he was cold, ice cold all over, and his limbs barely responded to his commands to try and push at this creature holding him too tightly for him to breathe. Struggling wasn’t working, however. All it did was make the pain worse.

”Tim - please -”

He couldn’t see Jon anymore. All was just this swirling _strangeness,_ and he wasn’t certain where he was anymore... he wasn’t sure _who_ he was anymore, or if the creature’s name was Tim. Why was he calling that name? It had to have no name. It was no one. It was... it was nothing, and neither was he. All he was was pain and blood and nauseating terror that reigned free inside his body. Was this how he would die? His legs gave in, and the only thing holding him up now were the hands of the monster that was drinking him in like liquor. 

”Martin!” something else shouted through the madness that had swallowed the being that thought he might have once been Martin, or someone of a similar name. He wanted to laugh, but all he could do was cry and hold onto the slippery plastic that was strangling the life out of his body. He wondered if he’d broken bones already, if he had them still. He wasn’t sure if his body was... well, made out of bodyparts. Maybe he was the same as this thing that was holding him. Had it had a name once? The voice was louder now: ”MARTIN!”

It cursed, and Martin closed his eyes. He was Martin. He’d forgotten it before and he really should have started remembering by now. All this - all this _forgetting_ , it wasn’t sitting with him too well.

”Ceaseless Watcher,” the voice from before began over in a low, commanding tone, ”Turn your gaze upon this creature and witness it in its true form; show it the pain it has caused and remind it of the terror that birthed it, witness it as it is and let it be _known_ the way only you can - reveal its weaknesses and feast upon them.”

The world was stablizing, and Martin could breathe again. He could see Jon, too, if only through the blur of pain that was sparking within him like electricity, and he tried to balance himself on his feet again but he realised he couldn’t feel the floor. The grip on his ribcage had grown ever tighter, and the fingers piercing his flesh had summoned rivulets of blood that were crawling along Martin’s body all the way down to his feet now - his clothes were wet from his own wounds, and his breath was hitching even as the hold of him finally loosened with a loud cry from the creature holding him.

It took him a moment to realise what was happening - Jon was _killing_ it.

”Jon, stop,” Martin heard himself whimper in a pathetic voice that carried no further than into the shape of the monster withdrawing from him with a pained jolt. He had to do better than that - but all he did was collapse on the floor as he was no longer supported, and his knees cracked painfully against the floor. His ears were ringing, but even through that noise he could hear Jon’s voice, the commanding tone of it, and then the scream from... Tim, right? He had to try harder than this. ”Jon, STOP!” 

Jon’s voice hesitated for a moment, but Martin wasn’t counting on it. He shoved his hand into the side of... whatever it was that was standing between him and Jon, and even though he could feel his own injuries open with more blood flowing through he pushed himself onwards until he was there, his body against Jon’s, and his hand - sticky and red with his own blood - pressed over his mouth. ”STOP!”

Jon’s grip of his wrist was hard, but not hard enough to bruise. Martin allowed him to remove his hand from his mouth, leaving behind a bloody print on his skin broken only by his unshaved stubble and the gap between his lips. He was panting from exertion.

”Stop, please, God,” Martin panted, ”Don’t - not for this - I’m alright, Jon, it’s alright. He doesn’t deserve to die for this. Please.”

He watched Jon swallow thickly, and the way he drew his fingers over his mouth and looked at the blood that caught onto his fingertips. Then his world started blacking out, and he held onto Jon as his legs gave way, and Jon caught him just in time to stop him from falling onto his already bruised knees again.

”You’re not alright,” Jon breathed out hoarsely, coming down on the floor with him to lay him down to sit.

”I’m fine,” Martin lied, ”I’ll be alright. It’s... not... don’t hurt him. Alright? Please.”

He tried to throw a glance over his shoulder but he was exhausted, his full body shaking from the shock that his injuries had put him through. He wasn’t sure how deep they were, but he was still gasping for air from the pain, and the bloodflow hadn’t stopped. With a groan he forced himself to turn, landing his side against Jon’s body where he held him tightly still, and he looked at Tim; he was crouched in the middle of the living room floor, his head hidden between his knees and his arms around his legs. He looked like... he looked like he was trying to hide, but didn’t know where to go.

Jon followed his gaze, and for a moment, all three of them were quiet. Then his gaze fell back to Martin and he lifted his shirt, his touch gentle and careful; he revealed three holes and two purple bruises over Martin’s ribs that he himself couldn’t look at for long without feeling a wave of nausea rushing over him, so he turned his gaze away and let Jon examine his body in silence with his eyes closed and mind somewhere far away from there. He was good at that, at least; the Lonely was always willing to embrace him when he needed to get away.

”You'll probably need stitches,” Jon’s voice carried past the distance between them. ”I’ll patch you up the best I can until then.”

”What about him?” Martin asked, his voice absent and weak.

”I don’t care,” Jon replied shortly, coldly. ”We’ll think about it once you’re alright.”

”It wasn’t his fault.”

”I _don’t care._ ”

Martin nodded slowly. His grip of Jon tightened and he forced himself back into the present, his eyes opening again to find his vision... not stable, but at least sharper than before. His sides ached, throbbed with the injuries.

”Can I talk to him?” he asked, shivering as he turned his gaze back to Tim.

Jon hesitated. His gaze was piercing as he turned it to Tim and examined him in silence for some time before finally making a judgement in his favour. Slowly, he nodded, and Martin nodded too, holding Jon’s hand for a little moment in his own before crawling away from him and making his way to the crouched shape in the middle of the white and brown rug he’d bought some months earlier. It now had bloodstains on it, but... surely they might still come off it with enough scrubbing?

”Hey,” he muttered in a shaky voice, wiped his hand on his trousers and then reached it towards Tim’s shape. He jumped at contact, but otherwise stayed still. ”You alright?”

”I’m sorry,” Tim spoke, his voice so muffled it took a moment for Martin to decipher his words. ”I’m so, so sorry, Martin. I’m - I’m sorry. I’m _sorry._ ”

Jon had stood up; he was watching them and every move they made. Every now and then his eyes darted to the doorway out of the room, and his expression was one of barely restrained fury. Martin was proud of him, however - he’d stopped himself in the middle of something that Martin had never once seen interrupted before. He’d done it, and... God, Martin loved him so much. He turned back to Tim and examined him carefully. There was no trace of the Stranger’s mark on him now, if not for the blood that he’d gotten on himself from Martin’s own wounds.

”It’s okay,” Martin said to him quietly, ”I’m alright. A little bruised, a little... a little bloody, but - it’s okay, nothing a visit to the urgent care can’t fix, yeah? What about you?”

After all, Jon had just all but attempted to outright destroy him - it seemed unlikely he hadn’t felt it to his core. All Tim did was shake his head, however.

”I’m sorry,” he said again, and Martin found his hand travelling over the man’s back, fingers bent to rub at him gently.

”That’s not an answer, you know?” he said a little breathlessly, as a wave of pain made its way through his body.

Tim shook his head again. ”Go,” he said. ”Don’t - don’t stay with me. Just go.”

It hurt, but so did everything else, so Martin withdrew his hand stiffly and nodded.

”Alright,” he said hesitantly. ”We’ll be back in a little while. Please don’t... don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone. Don’t try to leave. Please. And don’t - don’t hurt yourself, either. I don’t know... I don’t know what you’re thinking or feeling right now, but - you’re not alone with it. We’ve all hurt people, people we didn’t want to hurt. I know you didn’t want to hurt me. I know this wasn’t... you wouldn’t have if you’d had the choice, right?”

Tim shook his head, but just barely. He was tense from head to toe and _refused_ to bring his face at level with Martin's, or otherwise in any manner show that he was being addressed.

”I’m sorry,” he muttered again.

”I know. It’s okay. I forgive you,” Martin promised him.

”Martin? Come,” Jon prompted him, and he nodded with a sigh.

”I want to talk with you once this is done with,” he said quietly to Tim before standing up.

He managed it, but he was shaking so badly that Jon crossed the distance between them to hold him up; his warmth felt so good against Martin’s body that he let out a small sigh and closed his eyes, resting his head against the side of Jon's head for a moment even as he brought them into movement.

”Bandages, yeah?” he asked weakly, and Jon let out an indecisive noise.

”I’m not the best with first aid,” he said truthfully, and Martin chuckled.

”That’s what the doctors are there for,” he reminded him.

Their hands joined: it was hard to remember what _fear_ felt like with Jon there, Martin realised. He was just tired now, but... it would get better. He was sure of it.  
  


* * *

  
”Jon? Jon, I’m sure it looks worse than it really is,” Martin offered.

He looked pale and Jon ignored him. There was blood everywhere - it was on Martin’s clothes, his skin, Jon’s clothes and skin, the bathroom floor, in the tub and on the towel he was pressing against the injuries.

”The article _clearly_ states if the bleeding stops and there’s no dirt in the wound, we don’t even have to -”

”The bleeding hasn’t stopped,” Jon cut him off. He shifted, keeping his palm steady on Martin’s side. Martin was holding a cloth over the other side, but he didn’t seem particularly keen on applying the amount of pressure that Jon would have preferred - his hand was slack over it, perhaps out of fear of more pain.

”It’s almost there,” Martin argued, ”Really, they were just - fingers - how deep can you shove a finger?”

”Deep enough,” Jon snarled.

”God, Jon - I’m _fine_. I’ll be fine.”

The smell of blood remained strong in the room. It was nauseating, even though by now Jon would have thought he’d gotten used to it. He hadn’t - especially not Martin’s. And maybe Martin was right, maybe he _was_ overreacting, but when it was about him... Jon would always overreact. There was nothing in this world or beyond that would make him accept harm to the one he loved the most, no circumstance dire enough for him to not do everything in his power to protect Martin. He had, hadn’t he? He’d crawled through the hole left in reality where Tim had blocked him off, where he’d isolated himself and his _prey_ , and he’d hurt him until his grip of Martin had loosened, and he would have done much worse if Martin hadn’t... and _still_ his blood was boiling, and the alarms in his head hadn’t quieted down. As long as Martin was bleeding and as long as they were still in this house, trapped together with the danger that had caused the injuries in the first place, he wouldn’t calm down.

Carefully, Jon lifted the cloth over the puncture wounds on Martin’s side. A small trickle of blood escaped from one of them, but the others remained red, swollen and irritated but otherwise dry - he could see inside them, although the flesh within had mostly closed up by now.

”How does it look?” Martin asked, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow.

Jon hated to admit it, but he was right - the wounds weren’t _that_ deep after all.

”The good news is that you probably won’t need stitches,” he said with a sigh.

”Bad news?”

”It’s going to be a painful few days for you.”

Martin sighed too.

”I guess that’s the best case scenario, then,” he chuckled and adjusted ever so slightly to remove the towel from his right side. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, either, no matter the lack of proper pressure on it. It seemed the wounds were done for now.

Jon picked up the gauze and helped Martin straighten up.

”I don’t think he wanted to kill me,” Martin said as Jon began to wrap the bandages around his body. ”I really, really don’t think he was going to.”

”I don’t believe it,” Jon said shortly, and he didn’t. He knew monsters well enough to tell when one was about to claim its prey; the fact alone that Tim had isolated Martin in his little slice of hell had been proof enough that he’d wanted to finish him there.

”What are we going to do now?”

Jon shook his head. He didn’t know. There weren’t many options, and if he was truthful about it - and he’d told Martin as much already - he would rather have finished what he’d started than considered the alternatives.

”He’s - basically a baby, Jon,” Martin said with a tone of exasperation in his voice, ”You didn’t know how to control yourself at first either. You were hurting people, too.”

”I wasn’t killing them.”

”I’m not _dead_ , Jon, can you come off your worst case scenario already?” Martin snapped, ”Besides, you’re killing people now. Really, what’s the difference?”

”The people I kill deserve to die.”

”That’s what we keep telling ourselves, but in the end, they’re just the same as us,” Martin argued.

”I’m not like them. I don’t kill for fun. I don’t kill unless they’ve killed first,” Jon said, his voice dry and colourless. ”I’ll never kill someone who hasn’t hurt others first.”

”Won’t you, though?” Martin asked as dryly as he was speaking, ”Then what about Tim? He hasn’t killed _anyone_.”

”He stabbed you,” Jon growled, ”Do you really think I’ll just let that slip?”

”Big deal, Jon! I’m not even bleeding anymore. I’m _fine_ , I really am. We just - we’ll just have to try again. He needs to learn how to take control.”

”I’m _not_ using you as bait again, Martin,” Jon stated in a severe voice. He stopped pulling the bandage around Martin’s body and looked him in the eye, and they both were quiet for some time before he sighed and continued: ”There’s no way to ensure this won’t happen again. It happened with me, and it happened with you - both times the only way I could make him stop was to have the Watcher’s focus turn on him. I can’t turn it away every time. It doesn’t work that way. I’m not - I’m not the Watcher’s god, Martin, I’m just an avatar. There _will_ be a time when it will take him regardless of whether we want it to or not. Twice now I’ve called it off. Twice is two times more than I ever thought I could do it. Twice is... two times we lost control.”

”I’m not giving up on him, Jon,” Martin said, his voice sad but determined. ”He’s not a bad person. He never was. He’s just... angry, and - scared, I think. I think that’s really what it comes down to. I know what you said - about him being an... an avatar and _maybe_ a ritual, too, or whatever it would mean for him to have the Unknowing inside him. But I think - I think the reason why he’s so powerful and why it’s so hard for him to control it is... it’s less to do with the power itself and more to do with the fact that he’s... he’s been through a lot, Jon. Think about it. He was claimed by the Stranger of all things, the one Fear that has touched him more than any other. He lost his brother to it, and he almost died in the Unknowing. Whatever created him, whatever he is now, was born out of that fear and pain that was already in him. Do you think _you_ could control something like that? People go to therapy for way less, Jon - he never had any help dealing with _any_ of it. We all need help learning to deal with our demons. I think... if we just... if we give him a chance -”

”We’ve given him plenty,” Jon said coldly, but he could feel he was giving up on it and Martin could see it, too.

Instead of arguing, or even seeming offended that he’d been cut off, Martin tilted his head a little and smiled. Jon continued bandaging him - at least that was giving him some fraction of comfort, to be able to do something good for Martin now.

”One more, alright? Just one,” Martin asked, although Jon knew well that if this would repeat itself, then he’d ask for another yet again. Martin was like that - he didn’t like admitting defeat. It had saved Jon’s life before.

”One more,” he conceded then, his voice defeated but warm as his eyes climbed up to Martin’s. He leaned in and kissed him, and Martin lingered in the touch with one bloody hand lifted to caress Jon’s cheek.

”I think he just needs to trust us, too,” he said quietly between their breaths, ”and I think we need to be worth that trust. We didn’t get here on our own, Jon. I don’t think either of us would even be here if it wasn’t because we gave each other a chance over and over again - even when it hurt. It’s been two days. _Barely_. We had years to grow into the people we are today. Don’t ask too much of him.”

Quietly, Jon nodded. He pulled back far enough to see what he was doing with his hand and he placed a clip on the end of the bandage over Martin’s belly; it should hold for now, he thought, and he couldn’t help the relief he felt at seeing no blood wetting the dressings yet.

”Do you want to stay home for now?” he asked Martin, who nodded slowly.

”I’ll see a doctor if there's any sign of infection, but... you know, the Internet tells me I’m going to be fine, so I’m going to be fine. Isn’t that how it works?”

”Usually it’s the other way around,” Jon sighed.

”Yeah, really,” Martin chuckled, ”Usually it'd just tell me I'm dead already. Well... I guess that just goes to show, doesn’t it? I’ll be fine, Jon.”

He stroked Jon’s cheek again, then let his fingers wander down to his ear and over his neck, and for some time they rested their foreheads together and just breathed the same air passing between them, feeling each other close by, and Jon let his fingers caress Martin’s arm and back until they climbed up to his hair and combed through it only to pull him back into a kiss.

”I’m just scared,” he admitted then. ”Seeing you hurt, I...”

”It’s okay, Jon,” Martin told him softly, ”Nothing too bad is going to happen. I want to trust this. I want to trust - us, but also him. I know it’s hard. I know you two barely even get along. But I... I just... I want him to be alright. He doesn’t deserve this. He never did.”

”I wish I could trust him, Martin. I don’t. I didn’t before, and -”

”I know. Stranger, right?”

Jon nodded.

”You know, you really _are_ an avatar of the Eye,” Martin said with a hint of amusement in his voice. ”It’ll be alright. Even though you can’t read him like you can read other things, Jon, doesn’t mean he’s hiding things. I think - I think what we see is what we get.”

”All I see is you bleeding, Martin. Every time I close my eyes.”

”Then trust me, Jon, please,” Martin pleaded, ”because I see someone who needs our help.”

Slowly, Jon nodded.

”If he hurts you again,” he said anyway, and Martin sighed.

”One more chance,” he reminded Jon, who kissed him again, this time with a need in the gesture that wasn’t sated so easily.

”I know,” Jon muttered into it, and Martin held him tighter as they pressed into one another, the kiss toning down until they were simply sitting there together on the bathroom floor, surrounded by blood and plastic wraps and used towels. The silence stretched, growing comfortable between them as Jon hesitated continuing, but the matter pressed on him until he did: ”There’s one more thing.”

”Yeah?” Martin said, sounding a little surprised. Jon couldn’t blame him, but the truth was, he was full of doubts that he hadn’t yet voiced.

”I know you want to trust him,” he began.

”Yes, Jon, I do. I think he deserves it.”

”I - Martin, I understand that. But there’s still a chance that this... isn’t _really_ Tim.”

”If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have left me alone with him in the first place,” Martin pointed out.

”I was keeping a watch on you,” Jon reminded him, ”and he was weak. I can’t say that anymore, Martin, and the stronger he grows the more it concerns me.”

”Then what else would he be? He looks like Tim - well, most of the time, anyway - and talks like him and acts like him, so I wouldn’t be too concerned about it. Really.”

”When we found him, his skin was... stitched onto him,” Jon recalled hesitantly - the picture wasn’t pretty, but the implications were worse. ”The Stranger has used skins before to imitate people, and you know it would be much easier to take a skin off a dead person than to reanimate what was left of one. I... wish there was a way to tell for certain, but I - please, Martin; be careful with him.”

Martin hesitated. He looked up and out of the window towards the backyard, the old, crooked apple tree visible through the glass and swaying gently in the wind. It still had apples on it, although most had by now began to decay.

”You think he could be - like Sasha?”

”Something like that. A... replacement convincing enough for us to let our guards down around.”

”But why?” Martin asked, turning his gaze back. ”An offering in exchange for a ceasefire seems more likely than sending a spy or an assassin in our house. What would they gain from it? He can’t kill you, Jon, you’re stronger than he is, and if he’d kill me then the only thing the Stranger would achieve by it is just making you mad. They don’t want you mad, Jon, you’re already the worst threat to their continued existence as it is. They’re better off on your good side than not.”

His words made Jon feel a little better. He was right, after all; he couldn’t think of many things the Stranger would gain from cheating them now. All it needed was time to grow in power, and it had to know that the Watcher could take out what remained of it at whim - that Jon could, if he put his head into it. Hurting Martin would be a surefire way to make him deadset on destroying every remaining _trace_ of the Stranger from this plane, and there were very few things that Jon was scared of for his own sake anymore. If anything, he was just tired - tired and paranoid. But, he thought with a faint, joyless smirk - was it really paranoia if they were actually after him? He shook his head and pulled Martin closer.

”I hope he knows how much you care about him,” he said then.

”I don’t really care either way. I just... I missed him, Jon. I miss everyone we’ve lost. If there’d be a chance in hell to bring _any_ of them back... they didn’t deserve it. Starting from Sasha, I - if I could turn back the time and do things differently, even if it hurt, I would save them. Wouldn’t you?”

”I would,” Jon said without hesitation, ”And I... I know I'm not the best at showing it, but I don't have much against Tim. I’m just...”

”Worried,” Martin finished for him, ”I know. Given the choice between me and him, you’d choose me every time, it’s not a big secret and I’m sure he knows it, too. You’re just a little bit overprotective, you know that, right?”

Jon chuckled dryly.

”I don’t want him dead, and more than anything I don’t want to be the one to kill him if it happens - I watched him die once, Martin, I might not remember much of it but I haven’t... some things you just can’t run from. I _never_ wanted him to die. I told him as much then. He was the one who was hellbent on suicide. I didn’t want it. I...”

He was surprised when his voice died to a shudder and a subdued sob, and he lowered his gaze, closed his eyes and waited for the pain to pass. It was too heavy - the memory of everyone they’d lost, of the deaths he’d had to witness, the ones he could have prevented if he’d just been smarter or braver or better somehow. He’d never stopped blaming himself for them, and he never would; if he’d done things differently, so many people would still be there with them. 

Martin took a hold of his hand and squeezed it gently, reassuringly.

”I know, Jon,” he said in a soft voice, ”So we take these second chances when we get them, alright? I know it’s not easy to trust after everything that’s happened, but I promise you, I’ve got a good feeling about this one. I wouldn’t be pushing it if I didn’t. It just... feels right, what we’re doing. And you know how it never feels _right_ when it isn’t: there’s always something underneath it all that you can’t shake that feels weird or - or just wrong somehow. But I don’t have it with this, I don’t have it with him. So I want to trust this and I want to trust him.”

He held Jon’s hand for a moment longer before reaching up and pulling him into an embrace, and Jon rested there against him for some time just breathing him in before the pain inside him faded and he could breathe freely again.

”We’ll try again,” Martin mumbled into his hair, ”Next time, we’ll know better what to expect, and maybe I won’t end up needing first aid either. Fingers crossed.”  
  


* * *

  
Tim had barely moved. He’d found the couch with his back and he’d rested his body against it, but otherwise he was as he’d been when he’d been left alone. The sounds of traffic outside were faint, with rain coming down every now and then to tap at the windows, and through it all he could hear Jon and Martin in there somewhere, speaking in quiet voices further muffled by the walls and doors and corridors between them. He felt empty inside, but that emptiness was heavy and it gnawed at his insides, and it made him wonder whether he simply wasn’t human enough to really cry anymore because now, if ever, he wanted to - his eyes had wet his knees and the shirt he’d pulled over them, but that was all he’d managed, and the awful ache within him had only grown from the few tears he’d managed to shed. It would have been pointless anyway. No amount of crying would undo what he’d... what he had done. And he _had_ \- he had done it, hadn’t he? He remembered the way he’d gripped Martin’s body, the way he’d wanted to tear into it, to break it apart. He remembered how good his blood had smelled, how saturated it had been with fear. Even now he could feel it within him, the desire to hurt him more: his fingertips were itching with it, and within his body, something _twitched_ with the desire to grab, to claw, to destroy.

He deserved to die. In reality, he was waiting for it, and he could barely feel dread in the face of it now - there was no doubt in his mind that when the two of them would emerge again, Jon would finish what he’d started. It had hurt, more than being cut into, more than... more than anything Tim could remember, but the pain didn’t matter anymore. He’d deserved it, and it had reminded him of who he was supposed to be... called upon the human in him, maybe, if such a thing still existed inside his skin. It was alright, though; when he would end tonight, it would be the least he’d deserve. Still, it did scare him. It had always scared him. Submission to the end had never made the fear lesser, quite the contrary; he’d felt it before, and... he shifted slightly, his body trembling as he heard a door open. Footsteps approached the living room where he sat, waiting; he was holding his breath, and when he felt the two others stopping in the room, he felt exposed and the shaking of his body grew worse, like he was freezing in the warmth of the room.

”Jon?” Martin called softly.

One of them shifted, but Tim couldn’t tell which one it was. He wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t see Jon’s flame; he didn’t want to know how bright it burned now, how much he was drawing power from his god. He didn’t want to see him because... because it _scared_ him - because he knew the way Jon was looking at him was only the reflection of what he’d done before, a deserved anger or hatred that he couldn’t bring himself to face.

One of them stepped forwards. It was Martin, but Tim needed to smell him before he could conclude that - he'd learned by now that Martin smelled a certain way, sort of sweet and warm where Jon wore a stronger scent that reminded Tim of faded aftershave. Martin stopped within a distance from him at first, then, slowly, he moved closer until he’d reached his hand across the remaining distance between them. It landed on Tim’s shoulder and with it, he could feel Martin’s warmth settling beside him.

”I’m alright,” Martin told him quietly, his voice friendly, soft; ”Turns out I’m not even going to need stitches.”

Tim curled into himself more tightly, leaving barely enough space for himself to breathe. He wanted to repeat it again, tell Martin he was sorry, but it wasn’t any good.

”I’m worried about you,” Martin continued then, his fingers tracing Tim’s shoulder caringly. ”I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I know you feel awful. I don’t really know what to tell you to make you believe it, but it really doesn’t bother me that much. I knew we were risking a lot getting into it. I knew I might get hurt.”

 _You should have let him finish_ , Tim wanted to tell him - he wanted to beg Jon to do it now, but it was ridiculous. He didn’t want to make this about him, nor did he _really_ want to die. It was bad enough that Martin was there consoling him when - when he’d been the one to hurt him, not the other way around. _Never_ the other way around. He didn’t want to be forgiven, but it would have been selfish to argue it. It ached worse than the memory of the Eye gazing into him.

Slowly, he forced himself to look up, to at least lift his head from between his knees, if only barely. He hoped he was looking at Martin but how could he have told - there was nothing there but the by now familiar, yet still strange, static that lingered where his sight had once been.

”How bad is it?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath that his lips and tongue shaped as he exhaled.

”Not too bad,” Martin said thoughtfully, ”Jon helped me patch up and - and it’s fine, really. I’ll be sore for a couple days, but I’ve had worse before.”

His hand slid down from Tim’s shoulder and picked up his hand instead. In silence, he brought it over his own body, lifting his shirt and letting him trace the bandages around his ribcage.

”See? All clean and cared for,” he said with a smile.

Tim drew out the outline of the bandages with his fingers, and the feel of Martin’s bare skin above it made him feel funny in a way that made his self-hatred bite worse. Still, he didn’t want to stop, so he let himself linger until he knew he couldn’t justify going on any longer, at which point he withdrew his hand and nodded stiffly. He lowered his head back onto his knees and was surprised to feel Martin’s hand reach into his hair and stroke him gently all the way down to his upper back.

”I’m not mad at you,” he reassured him.

”I’m fucking mad at myself,” Tim told him, the words slashing at his chest like a knife. ”I’m dangerous. Martin, I can’t control it.”

”It takes time,” Martin promised him, ”It’s really about - how well you know yourself.”

”But I don’t,” Tim argued, ”I don’t know myself. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know anything. I’m - I could have killed you.”

”Could have, maybe,” Martin agreed, ”but didn’t. In the moment... I thought you might. But looking at what you really did, it’s - pathetic, really. I’ve got bruises and a few shallow cuts. Big deal, Tim.”

There was movement again, and Martin shifted; Tim knew he was looking at Jon as the man stopped beside them and then crouched down on the floor. He could feel Jon’s gaze on him, measuring him up and down, and he felt himself shrinking in front of him.

”I think all of us could use some tea,” Martin said then in a diplomatic, breathless voice. ”Jon?”

”Mm,” Jon agreed.

Tim felt his hand descend on his shoulder, and then a light grip of his shirt’s collar. He lifted his head, hoping he wasn’t shaking too visibly. Jon still made him... defensive.

”I’m... sorry,” Jon said then, ”For the hundreth time.”

Tim couldn’t help but let out a tense laugh.

”Sorry? For what?”

” _I_ could have killed _you_. Martin’s right, you... didn’t do much damage to him at all. I overreacted. I need you to know I don’t - I’m not saying this lightly. I’d kill for him. By now you know I won’t hesitate to kill for him. But what you did didn’t warrant death, and...”

”Thanks, Jon,” Martin said in a relieved voice.

”No,” Tim said, lifting his head more, his voice firm. ”I needed to be stopped. You stopped me. If I’d died - if you’d killed me - then fine. I don’t care. If I can’t control myself then I need to die and that’s - that’s it.”

”You’ll learn,” Martin said quickly.

Jon retreated his hand, and without it, Tim felt isolated and alone. He was now looking directly into the lightless blaze of Jon’s form and with it blocking his only exit from the corner he’d backed himself into, he couldn’t help the sense of claustrophobia setting in. Then Jon stood up; he stayed there for a moment before sighing, relaxing and moving away again.

”Martin, come.”

”Yeah. Tim?” Martin said, his finger stroking over Tim’s hand once to catch his attention. ”We’ll work this out. You, me, and Jon - it’ll be okay.”

Tim nodded, although he didn’t believe it. Still, the words warmed him up inside, and he allowed himself to feel that comfort as he lowered his head again.

”I’m sorry,” he said again.

”And I forgive you,” Martin said, his words implying a smile. Next thing Tim knew was a firm grip of his arm and a tug on it to tell him Martin wanted him to stand; he didn’t want to leave the little space he’d reserved for himself, but he couldn’t just sit on the floor for the rest of the day either, so hesitantly he followed Martin up.

”Does it hurt?” he asked as Martin guided him to follow Jon, whose shape was once more flickering at the edge of Tim’s vision.

”Not really,” Martin said, ”I mean, sure, there’s the ache that doesn’t go away, but it’s not... it’s not bad. Don’t worry about it.”


	7. Sore Subjects

* * *

Jon wasn’t asleep either, but Martin had listened to his breathing turn heavier and calmer for the past twenty minutes, so it couldn’t be far now. He wished that had been him - that he’d feel even a little bit more tired by now - but instead he was awake like he’d had several cups of coffee before bed, and his thoughts were racing yet jammed at the same time, like there were too many but not one of them was moving anywhere. At first he’d thought it was just the ache over his ribs, but even that had subdued as he’d stayed there, unmoving; the bandages weren’t tight enough to constrict and he felt rather comfortable, really, if not for the... _flow_. He couldn’t ignore it now. It was calling for him. Slowly he turned his gaze to Jon, who let out a soft sound of acknowledgment; their fingers entwined and Martin kissed him on the cheek, and Jon rubbed his nose against Martin’s, finally lifting to bump his forehead against his.

”You’re going somewhere,” he mumbled sleepily.

Martin attempted a smile.

”I can’t sleep, Jon, it’s - it’s him. I can _feel_ him across the corridor and it’s like... it’s like being charged up. Like I have an electric current just running through my spine all the time. I hate it. I like it, and I hate that I like it, and I need it to stop. I’m just going to check on him, and then I’ll be back, alright?” he spoke quietly, his breath mirroring from Jon’s lips.

”I’ll keep an eye on you,” Jon said, his dark eyes gazing at Martin through sleepy lids. He lifted his hand and caressed Martin’s face and hair for a moment before he closed his eyes again and pulled the blanket more tightly around his body. ”Do what you have to.”

Martin watched him for a moment, how calm he looked just before rest even though he rarely had a good night’s sleep at all, and for that moment he reflected upon just how much he _loved_ Jon - he’d never loved anyone or anything like him, and really, wasn’t he the luckiest man on earth to be able to sleep beside him every night, and hold him, and kiss him, and listen to his sleepy sounds and be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning? Wasn’t he blessed? He was; the thought kept him smiling even as he climbed out of the bed and set his feet upon the cool floorboards, ready to cross the room.

The corridor outside the bedroom was dark, not that Martin had expected anything else. He didn't turn on the lights, but... there really was no point. He knew his way, Jon was trying to sleep and Tim, well, he wouldn’t know either way, would he? Martin stopped in front of the guest bedroom and rapped lightly on the door, hoping the sound wouldn’t startle Tim. There was a... a wave, a little _spark_ in the flow within him and he could taste it in his mouth but he ignored it.

”Tim, it’s me. Can I come in?” he asked.

The bed creaked.

”Yeah,” Tim’s voice called out a little breathless, ”Yeah, I’m... let me just hide the body first, alright?”

Martin sighed. He cracked the door open and peered in; the room was dark if not for the window through which the streetlights were painting the floor a pale shade of yellow, and Tim was sitting on the bed, Martin’s long shirt pulled over his knees again.

”Can’t sleep?” Tim asked, his voice faking confidence and casualness.

”I was going to ask that from you, really,” Martin confessed, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ”Can I sit with you?”

”I mean - it’s your bed, really, not mine. I’m just borrowing it.”

Martin pulled himself up on the mattress and crossed his legs underneath him.

”The way things are looking, it might as well be yours. It’s not like you have anywhere else to go right now,” he pointed out. ”Which is... really why I’m here, actually. You know, I can feel you. The way you’re - building up walls in here. The way you’re pulling away. Don’t do that.”

”Does it tickle?” Tim asked, but his voice was quiet and joyless.

”No,” Martin said truthfully, ”It feels like someone’s injecting me with caffeine, and I was looking forwards to sleeping tonight. Talk to me, okay? I don’t - I don’t want you to do what you’re doing.”

For a while, Tim said nothing. He hugged his legs and his toes dug into the mattress, and Martin wondered what it was like for him. Wasn’t he already isolated? He couldn’t see a thing; even with him there, the way the world looked to Tim, he was still... alone. No wonder he was feeding Martin like a steady river. Martin wasn’t sure what he could do to help it, but it was going to be a part of whatever would happen in the future - Tim needed him, and Jon, to get used to living not just as an avatar, but with his disability as well. It wasn’t like he’d had the chance to learn his way around it yet. He’d barely begun; Martin still remembered well enough how he’d found him outside, crouching on the paved pathway just metres from the door and yet unable to find his way back to it. All he’d done was get turned around once, and... the thought was dreadful.

”I don’t deserve a second chance,” Tim finally said. ”I’ve been sitting here, thinking - thinking how I can leave. I know you said Jon will kill me if I do. So be it. I can’t risk hurting anyone again. It’d just be better that way. I’m serious, Martin. I fucked up when I thought I could live this way. That this would... somehow be better than being dead. It isn’t. It’s never been.”

Martin shook his head and reached out his hand, coaxing Tim into taking it. He wasn’t exactly holding his in return, but he accepted Martin’s gesture, and Martin held his hand trying to project onto it what he felt for him - all the warmth and the hope he had for him went into the touch. The river that flowed between them shivered again like in a breeze.

”I know it’s tough,” he said, ”and I know you’ve been through a lot. But I already told you, I’m not badly hurt. You didn’t do anything you can’t make up for. It was just an accident.”

”You know, it really isn’t an accident when you make a decision about it,” Tim scoffed, ”You don’t know what went through my head.”

”Nothing good, I bet,” Martin said, his voice patient, ”It doesn’t matter either way. It really doesn’t. What matters is what you choose, not what your instincts tell you. Do you want to hear what mine are telling me? Make it worse, Martin. Tell him he’s alone. Tell him he’s a monster, that it’ll never get better. Tell him - tell him he broke your trust. That you’ll never forgive him. That’s in my head _all the time_. But it’s not me, I wouldn’t ever say those things to you and mean them, alright?”

”And yet they’re all true,” Tim argued.

”No. They’re not. Firstly, you’re not alone; I’m right here. Maybe you can’t see me but I’m right here, you can feel me, you can hear me, and I swear I can still come closer if I need to. Right? So you’re not alone at all, and if I told you you were, I’d be lying to you. And yeah, maybe you are a monster. So’s Jon. Jon’s like - you know when you walk into an area in a video game and it throws ten health potions at you and you know whatever comes next is really bad? That’s Jon. And I still love him. Like, a lot. He’s done a lot of awful things and some things that can never be undone, but he’s not a bad person. And you? You’re not human and that _sucks_ , alright, I _know_ it does, but it doesn’t make you undeserving of - of love and - and friendship and warmth and all the good things. You’re not a bad person either. I know you’re not.”

Martin held Tim’s hand tighter and wished he’d react to it. He was looking away now, his face partially illuminated by the window so that Martin could tell that he had tears in his eyes, but none had fallen out yet, and still he could practically feel the crushing sensation inside the man’s chest that was clutching him tightly and which Martin hoped he was at least making a little bit easier to bear by being there with him.

”It gets better, too,” he continued then, quietly, his fingers sliding up and down over Tim’s palm, ”I know it looks really grim right now, but... trust me, things could be much worse than they are. You don’t need to face any of this on your own. You’ve got us, okay? I’m here, and I know you probably don’t think it’s true, but Jon cares about you too and he wants you to be alright. He’s just... bad at showing it, and even worse at saying it as it is. You’ve been out and trying to get your things straight for, what, barely two days - did you really think you’d have it all sorted out by now?”

Tim shivered. He lowered his gaze and a tear fell out, and it crawled down his cheek until he lifted his free hand and wiped it away. Once more, the river between them shivered, but... it was slower now, thinner, and much less deep. Martin couldn’t say it didn’t leave him thirsty, but he was used to it, and it meant that he was winning - winning over the overwhelming solitude that was enveloping his _friend_ , and that was all that mattered. Not his own hunger, not the maws of the Lonely, but Tim; he wasn’t thinking straight when he let go of his hand and pulled him into a hug, the gesture at first questioning but then nothing but welcoming as Tim resigned to it and let himself fall into Martin’s body.

”You didn’t break my trust, Tim,” Martin said with his eyes closed and held him firmly, the warmth of their bodies entwining and becoming one, and the river was all but strangled for the time being, barely trickling into Martin’s veins. ”It was just practice, and practice is all about failure.”

Tim’s fingers wrapped around his shirt and he turned his face against Martin’s chest, and Martin brought his arm around him and held him there, his head leaning against his bushy hair and - and his heart raced, he realised, with his fingertips tingling and his breath turning lighter and faster. He’d never really paid attention to it before now, but... Tim had a nice scent, too; it was stronger after the bath he’d taken, void of the metallic tint of his own blood and the weird attic they’d found him in, and instead he smelled lightly of spices and the fireplace and Martin’s own shirt, and he was breathing calmly and deeply now, and he was warm and he felt good and... God, Martin wanted to kiss him. He wanted it so bad he could have done it if it wasn’t for Jon in the other room - he’d never do that to Jon. But he wanted to, and that was a problem; problem he’d need to talk about whenever Jon would wake up. He didn’t want to bring it up now, even though the guilt that acknowledging the desire had immediately kicked up like dirt. Tomorrow would do, and... tonight, well, he couldn’t really slink away now, could he? So he kept holding Tim and they were both quiet, and Martin wished he had Jon’s ability to read thoughts, if only to reassure himself that he was at least alone with this desire. Not that it would have made much of a difference with Tim, but... they really, really didn’t need any further complications - things were bad enough already.

”How does it feel?” Tim asked, and although his voice was quiet and soft it still managed to make Martin jump. ”Feeding from me.”

Martin let out an inconclusive sound.

”It just makes me sad, really,” he said then, ”Knowing that you were in here alone and hurting. That’s why I came in. I don’t want that, you know? I don’t want any of my friends hurting, even if it does feed me and my - patron, or whatever.”

”But you enjoy it.”

”I do,” Martin confirmed.

Tim nodded. Then he straightened up, shivered and quickly covered a yawn with the back of his arm.

”I guess that makes me feel a little bit better, knowing that you’re feeding off of my misery too.”

”Trust me, this house is just a mess of everyone feeding off of each other’s misery and pain,” Martin sighed, ”You fit right in. It’s... it’s tough, but you get used to it. It doesn’t mean you enjoy it, even if -”

”Even if I enjoy it? Yeah, I’m... starting to get that,” Tim grunted.

He rubbed at his shoulder and yawned again. The river wasn’t there now - all Martin could get from him was tiredness and calm and relaxation. It made him smile, even though he still felt guilty and... and even though he still wanted to kiss him. The desire just wasn’t passing like he'd hoped it would.

”Alright,” he said then, placing his feet on the floor again. ”Time for bed. You know you can just knock on our door if you need anything, yeah?”

Tim nodded.

”Yeah. I’ll - I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, Martin. For... everything.”

Martin smiled.

”Mm. Good night, Tim.”

”Good night.”

Moments later when Martin curled up against Jon once more and felt him reach his arm around his body to hold him close, he wondered if he already knew; after all, nothing much escaped the Archivist’s attention. If so, Jon made no note of it. His body was warm and soft and welcoming against Martin's, and the guilt he felt leaning into it and taking Jon's hand in his own was crushing for a moment until Martin could remind himself that he'd done nothing wrong - not yet, and he wouldn't, he knew himself better than to worry about that. It took him a while to fall asleep with the throbbing in his head and chest, but once he did, he slept peacefully enough, perhaps despite of and perhaps _because_ of Jon's usual restlessness beside him. The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the alarm on his phone.

When he reached for it to turn it off, he felt Jon's hand move over his body and turn to gently caressing his side under the blanket. A small smile lingered on his lips as he turned on his back to look at him, and Jon was his usual morning self, eyes puffy from sleep and looking beautiful in a way he really only did at this hour. There was a softness to him after waking up, a moment of stillness where his mind was quieter than usual and all he really wanted to do was lie back down and close his eyes, even if they had a habit of opening again soon after regardless of whether he was still awake or not.

"Good morning," Martin muttered, lifting his hand to touch Jon's face. The man leaned into his gesture and did indeed close his eyes, nodding a little perhaps out of exhaustion rather than agreement, and Martin let out a soft chuckle. "Work today, or are we still on an urgent work-related mission that requires our absence?"

"I'm considering it," Jon admitted, "but I'd rather stay home. Especially after yesterday. I - don't want to risk anything happening while I'm gone."

"It'll be alright," Martin promised, "the Institute needs you, and I can, I don't know... what was it? Stab him in the face if he tries anything. I promise to play it safe if you go."

"Would you like me to?"

"No," Martin confessed, "but we have bills to pay, and..."

"It's not like I can be fired," Jon chuckled. He relaxed again and lay down beside Martin, his arm crossing his body and pulling it close. "You wanted to talk to me last night. Is now a proper time?"

Martin sighed.  
"No? I - I hate it when you _know,_ " he said truthfully.

"I told you I'd be watching," Jon reminded him, but Martin shook his head and closed his eyes.

"I know. I know, and I - I get it. Still, I don't like it."   
A moment later he opened them again, aiming his gaze at the ceiling.  
"I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon nodded.  
"I... know," he said with a quiet, tired chuckle, and Martin slapped him on the side of his hip, the only part of his body readily available from the angle his arm was trapped in.

"Stop knowing for a second, alright?" he chuckled nervously, and Jon nuzzled his face against the side of his head, his nose poking through Martin's hair and eventually against his ear. His breath was warm and tickled against Martin's skin, and he just barely resisted the urge to slap him again. Instead, Martin reached up with his hand until his fingers touched Jon's arm, and he began tracing shapes onto his scarred skin there slowly as he thought what to say - or how to phrase what he was going to say. In the end, he had to go back on his last request.

"Okay, so... stop knowing _after_ this question," he breathed out tensely, but managing a pained grin as he spoke.

"Fine," Jon said into his ear, and Martin's nails bit into his arm. "What shall I know before I close my inner eye?"

"Tell me... how much do I not need to tell you?" Martin asked.

Jon hesitated for a moment.  
"I'd rather you explained it to me in your own words," he said then, "I can tell how you feel, but I can't know what you've made of it; I think the latter means more than the former."

"Alright," Martin said, drew breath and then exhaled it in the shape of a sharp, near inaudible 'fuck'. Jon huffed, finally moving his face away from Martin's ear, although the next position of his nose right by the sensitive skin of Martin's neck was hardly any better when it came to his little sounds, breaths and puffs. Still, Martin tried his best to ignore the need to turn against him and kiss him and hold him - he knew he was distracting himself, and he knew now wasn't the time, no matter how much he wanted to be close to the man he loved. "So..."

He gathered his thoughts for some time, with time ticking past his alarm. He wasn't sure if he liked there being a deadline for this conversation, but he knew it was better if there was - and if Jon could then leave for work, in case he needed the time and distance to think about it further. It wasn't easy, still. The words were thick like clumps in his throat that he didn't know how to spit out. He closed his eyes again.

"So you... you know how I feel around him," he said with a nervous chuckle, "I'm not going to explain that, then, I... I guess I'd better explain how it happened, or how I think it did. Jon, I've - I've never been the most attractive guy, and I've always been, well, you know me - I'm awkward, shy, clumsy... It's really not every day for me that someone gives me a second look, at least when I haven't obviously done something _stupid_ to deserve it."

Jon's hand spread gently over his stomach and it felt so warm and comforting there that Martin moved his own on top of it and held it gently, keeping it in place.

"So I - I guess I'm weak? I don't think he's meant anything by it, he's just... you know Tim, you know how he is. He thinks he's funny and he knows he's attractive, I - I don't know, Jon. He never gave me the time of the day before, but ever since... ever since the attic, he's given me more than just that. The little stupid jokes, the... the flirting, the touches... I just - I feel flattered. And - and it's working. Because I'm weak and stupid, okay? I'm falling for it. I've never been flirted with like that, Jon, I don't know how to pay it no attention, I don't know how to not let it get to me. And he _is_ attractive. I mean - you've got eyes, right? So... getting attention from someone like that, I... I guess it just makes me feel good."

Jon nodded, his nose pressing into the back of Martin's neck. He breathed him in for a moment with his hold around his body tightening, and Martin caressed the back of his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles and feeling the bones of his long fingers underneath his own.

"I know I shouldn't... I already have you. I don't need anything more," Martin hurried to say, his words emphasised and heavy, "It's not that I'm missing anything - I love you, and I know you love me and I get everything I want and need from you. I'm perfectly good just... just being with you. I'd never ask for anything more, and I'd never, ever ask for anything _else_ than this. I need you to _know_ that, Jon - I need you to _hear_ me. Ask me. I need you to. Because I want to hear myself say it."

Jon's touch gained pressure, and Martin let him turn him so that they could look each other in the eye. There was a depth inside Jon's gaze but he was smiling when he spoke, his words pressed and full of power but still gentle the way he only spoke them to Martin.

"Tell me how you feel about me."

"I love you," Martin said in an instant, letting himself relax to the strange, electrified feeling of being compelled - under any normal circumstance he would have hated it, but now it was welcome, and he didn't resist it for a moment. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you; I want to wake up like this every morning until the day I die and that's... really it, Jon."

Jon nodded, his body relaxing beside Martin's as the feeling of a current rushing through faded. Martin sighed, turning his gaze to the ceiling.

"It's really just because I'm... I guess suspectible? I've always thought of myself as... well, ugly and awkward, really. And it doesn't help that I'm gay, really, it always just made things _worse_ for me. I've always thought I'd be the last person to find someone to love me, and I'm used to people looking right through me. I guess that's how I made it through all the years where you hated my guts, too," he said with a joyless laugh, and Jon held him tighter, returning his nose into his hair.

"I didn't _hate_ you, Martin, I just... I guess I was projecting," he said and Martin sighed.

"Yeah, well, same difference. I was alright just loving you from a distance, you know? All I wanted was for you to be alright and - and happy, I guess, even though the thought of you being happy with someone else killed me. I always kind of thought that's how it would go, you know? I didn't even know if you _could_ have loved me, before you did, anyway. I guess I had a feeling - I'm usually right when I take a guess," Martin said, and this time there was some amusement in his crooked smile. "I'm pretty good at telling, you know, about other people."

"I do love you," Jon told him softly, "All that you said about me, I... I feel the same way about you. I wouldn't trade one morning like this for anything in the world."

Martin nodded.  
"So it's not that I'm missing anything. I'm just stupid."

"You're not stupid. You can't... help it," Jon said. Then he sighed: "I know you, Martin, and I'm not overly worried; I trust you and I know, I knew before you told me to _ask_ you that it wasn't because there's anything wrong between us. I - I'd like to think that you're happy."

"I am," Martin promised him, looking straight into his eyes, "I'm happy and I've never been more in love with you, Jon. This isn't about that."

"So - I'm not afraid, Martin. I'm not scared of losing you. But I... I guess I'm jealous, anyway," Jon said with a soft, defeated laugh.

Now Martin turned for him until their bellies were touching and he was breathing on Jon's face and their lips were an inch away from meeting, and he looked at him in the eye the best he could, his own gaze flickering right and left as he reached his hands to touch Jon's face and pulled him into a kiss.

"I love you, Jon," he said, although he was sure he was going to wear those words out if he kept going like this for much longer, "and I'm sorry."

"It's..." Jon started, but the words died when he kissed Martin again, and then he shoved his head underneath Martin's and for a moment he was stuck there breathing in a little pocket of air of his own making by Martin's shoulder, and he shivered a little before resurfacing. "What do you want?" he asked then.

"I'm not sure," Martin said truthfully, "I want this to go away. So I guess I'll have to talk to him, right? I'll - have to ask him to stop. I don't know exactly what I'm going to say, I can't... exactly ask him to stop being attractive, but he could mind himself a little more, at least, you know - I'm taken and everything, so the flirting's really unnecessary."

"I'm not sure he knows he's doing it," Jon said dryly. "That's been a part of his personality from the beginning."

"Well, he needs to stop it, alright? Because I'm going to die if he keeps it up - I'm serious, it's killing me."

"Martin, I..."

Martin looked at him, waiting, but it took Jon a very long time to continue.

"As much as I'd like to blame him for it all," he finally did speak again, "It is like you said, Martin, I have eyes, and... you're not entirely innocent in this either."

Martin sighed.  
"I know, okay? I know. I know I've been touching him more than I should have and - and maybe some of it has been, well, inappropriate for someone who's already in a relationship. I know. I feel really bad about it, alright? But I've tried to not do it and I've tried to make it... casual, and it's not like I can just _watch_ when he's hurting, either. He's blind, Jon, and like last night, sometimes I _feel_ how lonely he is. I hate being able to tell like that, but it... it gets to me. I don't know what to do about it. Be happy you don't have to be aware of it, but I can't just shut it out like that."

Jon nodded. Then he sighed and pulled himself up from the bed, and Martin watched him stretch and yawn, the loose sleeves of the grey tee he wore to bed slipping down his thin arms and up and over his shoulders.

"Would you rather speak with him alone?" he asked then, and Martin made an inconclusive sound, following him up on the bed.

"I guess? I mean, you two will just end up in another fight over this and I think I'll end up killing you both if that happens," he said in a bitter tone. "But after yesterday... I don't know, Jon, I know I can trust him but I'm not asking you to do it."

"Perhaps I could leave you for a couple hours," Jon said hesitantly, "If you _promise_ me you will not get in any trouble, and if anything happens -"

"I'll stab him in the face. Yeah, yeah. I won't let him grow any extra arms or anything while you're gone."

"Just be careful," Jon pressed, "I won't be long and I'll keep an eye on you again."

"I hate it, Jon."

"I know."  
Jon chuckled and pulled him into a brief hug before he was climbing out of the bed again, leaving Martin sitting there with the blanket pooling over his lap.

"Fine," Martin said then, and Jon nodded.

"Just for a couple hours," he said, and Martin nodded.

"It'll be enough. I - we'll get through this, right? Like anything."

"I'm not worried, Martin," Jon reassured him, "I trust you."

"And I trust you. And I - God, I love you, Jon, alright? I don't know how else to explain how I feel. I'm just really fucking ashamed."

Jon smiled before turning his focus on the trousers he was trying to pull on; for a moment Martin watched him dress up and the cool air from the outside made itself known upon his skin, pushing through the heating in the house. Then Jon looked up at him again and reached out his hand to help him out of the bed.

"Your turn to make breakfast," he reminded Martin, who sighed dramatically as he planted his bare feet on the floor.

"Fine, I'm up, I'm going," Martin promised.


	8. He'll Think I'm Insane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from mental health crisis land of suffering, I'm here to deliver a new chapter very late to the party. Sorry about that, it's been a rough bit in this household as of late.

* * *

  
The alarm had woken Tim up, but he had no idea how long ago it had been that he’d heard it go off. Since then he’d listened to the occasional creak from the bedroom and the steady flow of voices mixing with the rare sound of laughter, and to the noise of the city outside growing louder as the morning aged. He’d heard children and dogs and car horns, and crows and the chirping of smaller birds, and he felt trapped inside the house, fully aware of how restricted his movements now were. There was no way for him to simply go out and enjoy the morning, he couldn’t have even gone for a walk if he’d wanted to, but his body and mind both craved the challenge of a morning run or a hike out there somewhere - anything but the dull air indoors, the scents of a house so firmly insulated from the outside world that even its sounds were distant and muffled.

It could have been a different day altogether when he heard a knock on his door, and he stirred to it, pulling his blanket more tightly around his body to cover it from prying eyes before he acknowledged the sound with an invitation to the one requesting it.

”Martin’s making breakfast, if you’d like to join us.”

It was Jon; Tim hadn’t expected that. He lifted his head a little and felt his lips part, but no sound came out. The words that he wanted to say were heavy and difficult to get out, but he’d ran them through his head over and over before falling asleep the night before, and now was as good time as any - wasn’t it? They were alone, he had a moment, if only Jon wouldn’t leave before he got the words out. Jon didn’t, however.

”Jon, there’s - something I want to say first,” Tim finally began.

Jon made a sound and shifted in the doorway.

”Would you like me to come inside for it?” he asked then, his voice hesitant, uncertain.

”Yes, actually.”

The door closed. Tim could hear Jon’s fingers over it, tracing the wood, but he couldn’t place the man in his picture of the room - all he saw was the glow that this morning seemed dimmer than usual, though maybe the brightness that Tim remembered was that with which Jon had burned him and not the one that he carried with him throughout the day. He lowered his gaze.

”I’m done,” he said to the blanket over his lap. ”I’m over it, Jon.”

The dark light moved in the corner of his vision; Jon crossed from the doorway to the bed and sat down on it, bending the mattress underneath his weight like Martin had the night before. Tim didn’t look at him. The words burned his throat badly enough without the fire burning at his eyes, too.

”I don’t want to be your enemy.”

”I’m... glad to hear that.”

”No, that’s - that’s not it. I mean, that’s a part of it, but I - I want to thank you. For saving my life. I owe you for it. I haven’t... I haven’t shown it, I’m too fucking tangled up inside my own head, but - I’m grateful for it. For being alive, and for having a second chance, for not just being thrown out to the wolves. So... so thank you. I know I’ve been a piece of shit. It’s just -”

”Hard. I know.”

Tim nodded stiffly.

Jon sighed. He moved, his weight shifting over the bed for a moment before he stilled again, and it sounded like for some time he was holding his breath too. Then he spoke again: ”I didn’t save your life, Tim. Martin did. If it had been up to me -”

”That’s not true,” Tim cut him off, ”Maybe Martin’s part of it, but you’ve made that choice every day - even when I deserved to die, you didn’t kill me. I’m still here, even after - even after yesterday, I still have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in, and I’m still _breathing_ , and it’s just because you didn’t take the shot when you had it. I know what Martin did. I remember. But it’s still your choice. And I... I owe you. So no, I don’t want to be your enemy. But that’s not all. Jon, I’m...”

He breathed in deep, closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, his whole body tense.

”I’m sorry. For everything. What I’ve done now and - and for the things before.”

A silence followed his words. Tim wished he could have seen Jon through it, more of him than the vague shape of a man seated beside him anyway, but as bright as his fire was it revealed nothing of his expression or even an aura beyond that which implied the Eye’s presence within him. Then he sighed, and the sound made Tim’s ears perk up, desperate for a continuation. He hadn’t told him this to be ignored - waiting for an answer was getting physically painful to endure now.

”Can we start over?” Jon finally asked.

”It’s been a long time,” Tim said hesitantly. ”A long time since I - since I knew you, or thought I did, or... whichever. Maybe you’ve changed. I don’t know. Maybe I can give you a chance for a change. So... yeah.”

He looked away from Jon. It wasn’t easy. He was still angry, and maybe that would never change; maybe he’d carry that anger with him forever. It already felt like it had been forever. Was it just how he’d always been? Ever since Danny’s disappearance, ever since _Orsinov_ , he’d been trapped in that cycle with the growing darkness inside him that he couldn’t fight. Jon had just been there to take the brunt of it. Jon was so fucking easy to hate - he’d given Tim plenty of reasons and excuses to mark him as the one who’d get the worst of it. Elias had been out of reach, and now he was dead, so who else, really? Who else would carry the burden for him, the one that he wasn’t strong enough for on his own? With what had happened to him since the wax museum, Tim just didn’t have it in him anymore. It was leaking over. Maybe Martin was right; maybe he needed somebody else to share it with. And wasn’t Jon offering?

”Yeah, I’d - I’d like to start over,” he finally concluded.

”Thank you,” Jon huffed warmly; his hand touched the side of Tim’s arm lightly, questioningly. ”Are you ready to go?”

”Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. God, I - I hate it, you know?” Tim replied, separating his arm far enough from his side to let Jon take a proper hold of it. ”I hate that I need your help to go down the fucking stairs now.”

”You won’t need it forever.”

Once he was safely back in his jeans, they crossed the room. There was nothing natural about it, about the way Tim had to calculate and question his every step in the fear of hitting something or walking into a wall and really, he could feel it on his skin that whole time, the _expectation_ of finding something in his way, but Jon was careful bringing him out into the corridor and then down the stairs.

”I used to hate how you needed everything in perfect order, you know?” Tim told him as they made their way down one step at a time. ”I need you to know that I’ve changed my mind. It’s great, actually.”

Jon chuckled.

”Would you like to try and convince Martin of it?” he asked.

”Sure, let me just trip over something he left in my way, I’m sure the guilt will get to him eventually.” Tim hesitated for a moment. ”We really are opposites, aren’t we? The all-knowing and... then there’s me. Can’t even tell where we’re going right now.”

”I don’t mean to come across belittling, but I’d change places with you if I could. I’ve seen enough for one life,” Jon said quietly. ”And yet - I’ve never been brave enough to choose to end it.”

”Yeah, no, it’s easy to say that,” Tim scoffed; his hand hit a doorway and he felt his way around it while Jon waited for him to pass through it before him. ”The truth is, this is shit.”

"I can't imagine."

The kitchen smelled strongly of coffee. Jon led him there, took a hold of his hand and placed it on the counter; in a moment he’d pressed a cup against it, and Tim took a hold of it, turned around and planted his hips against the counter instead. He didn’t know where the goddamn table was in relation to where he now stood, but it didn’t matter - he felt just fine standing there with his coffee and watching Jon’s shape pour another for himself.

”I was getting worried,” Martin’s voice joined them from nearby.

”Sorry,” Tim said, managing a degree of his usual cheerful voice in response, which after yesterday sounded almost unnatural to him. ”Didn’t mean to hog him all to myself like that. You know I can’t get enough.”

Jon sighed but said nothing; Martin, on the other hand, chuckled warmly. Tim felt a strange pull to him, to that sound - he couldn’t help but remember the way his body had felt the night before, how good he’d felt just lingering there in his presence with his warmth against his skin, and that thought made him sigh. This really was becoming just one of those things he battled on a daily basis, wasn’t it? This - this _need_ to be close to someone, anyone, and holding onto the little things he got like they were the only things keeping him from drowning. But it had been four years since he’d last been touched with kindness, and even then those connections had more often than not been superficial, not that he’d known to mind it then; a touch was a touch was a touch, wasn’t it? It sure seemed that way now, with even Jon guiding him down the stairs making him feel a certain weakness settling in the pit of his stomach.

It was pathetic, really, but... he could barely remember what it had felt like to be close to somebody else without the pain of it making him scream until there was no voice left in him to do it anymore. Tim lifted his cup to his lips and breathed into it, the warm steam from it wetting the tip of his nose.

"I'll be leaving you two for a few hours," Jon said, pulling Tim back from his longing. His weight settled beside Tim by the counter - apparently this was where they were having breakfast today. "Martin promised to keep the peace - I hope you'll agree."

Tim let out a disbelieving sound, his head turning towards Jon even though he kept his eyes down. There was really no point trying to find the light's face; he wouldn't hit the eyes even if he'd try, and trying... well, it felt awkward. Pointless. Desperate. Like being unable to admit obvious defeat.

"I'm surprised you..." Tim started, but he thought better of it; had he not promised to forgive Jon just minutes ago? He swallowed, but Jon knew what he'd been about to say. Tim could hear it in the way he breathed out something of a chuckle. "No, you know what?" he said instead; "I'll behave if Martin behaves. Promise."

"Don't know that I will," Martin laughed tiredly.

"I'll be watching you," Jon said, his words weighted, and Tim knew that although he was aiming them at Martin, they were meant for him more.

Still the truth was that he _was_ surprised, and he didn’t know what to expect once Jon was gone. Martin hummed quietly under his breath as he cleaned up the kitchen, but Tim was nearly certain that the tension he could feel in the air wasn’t just inside his own head.

”Martin, I...”

”Yeah?”

It had taken Tim some time, but he’d found the chairs in the end. He slid into one and crossed his hands on the table, nearly knocking over a glass that he hadn’t known was still there. Martin huffed warmly and caught it before it hit the table.

”I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Tim finally said, listening to the sounds of Martin filling the dishwasher beside him somewhere.

”I’m not,” Martin replied quickly, ”Well - I guess a little bit? But it’s nothing I’m not used to. I’ve learned to be careful around most people these days. Everyone’s got something to hide, and if you don’t, then you’re the one I need to be looking out _for_. There’s really not that much time I can just... feel safe.”

A weight settled in the bottom of Tim’s stomach, and he turned his head away from the direction of Martin’s voice to hide the grimace that he tried and failed to swallow.

”What about Jon?” he asked, surprised at how casual his voice sounded. Something was constricting his throat, and it was hard to speak through. ”How does he make you feel?”

Martin let out a soft sound.

”He’s most of that safe time for me,” he said gently. After a moment of silence he let out a small laugh and sighed. ”I was going to ask you something. Well, two things, really.”

Tim nodded, hoping Martin would catch it and continue. He did.

”Firstly, what took you two so long? I thought maybe I should check on you, but - I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

”I guess you could say talking to you cleared my head about some things,” Tim said, choosing his words carefully. ”Jon’s not my enemy. I don’t want to make him one. I mean, _obviously_ \- we both know how that would end. But even if that wasn't - what happened before was... a long ago, even if it doesn’t feel that way to me, but - the longer I’ve been here, to more I feel like I really don’t know either of you anymore. You’re not the same people. I don’t think I’m the same, either. So... clean slate. I told him I’m over it.”

It seemed to catch Martin’s interest.   
"I'm happy to hear that. I'm - I'm happy to hear I helped, I guess? Because you're right, a lot has changed. Especially with Jon. It's... it's been a rough journey for him. For... us."  
He fell silent for a time again but then Tim heard him shifting, walking over; his hand touched Tim's shoulder and Tim lifted his head in attention.  
"The second thing I wanted to ask," Martin spoke, "would you like to go out?"

There were few things Tim wanted more.  
"You don't even have to ask," he chuckled breathlessly, "I need to get away from this house - all houses, really - no offense."

"None taken," Martin laughed, "Let's find you a jacket and... and see what happens."

The truth was - although it was also true that he desperately wanted fresh air - the offer had made Tim's breath catch and his heart pound in his chest near painfully. He remembered all too well how it had gone for him the last time he'd moved past the front door. He remembered the endless open around him, the _emptiness_ of it all, and it terrified him. He couldn't lose the tingling in his toes and fingers and the cold that followed him all through trying out various coats and jackets and shoes by the door, and though Martin spoke to him, he barely heard it at all. It didn't seem to matter either way: maybe Martin was only talking to keep himself from feeling that same dread. It had to feel like something, didn't it, to be responsible for someone who was so damn helpless himself - if Martin would leave him, Tim wouldn't know where to go. He didn't even know the address of the house, and when he asked, it was hard to turn into a joke. He wasn't a boy anymore. He didn't want to need an adult to take him back to his caretakers should he get lost. No, he... he really wanted to shrug it off and go to a bar and kiss someone to make up for it. That's how he would have navigated a situation like that before, that's how easy it had been to take back control. And now? Now it felt impossible. He wanted to laugh. He wasn't going to be kissing anyone anytime soon, was he? 

How many fucking arms did he have, anyway? The ones that had nearly broken Martin's ribs weren't the same he was pulling on his shoes with now, and _fuck_ , he even needed Martin to put them the right way around for him. He couldn't tell which was left and which was right before he was heel deep in one of those things. _Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic._ His brain was throbbing with the word as his heart kept beating. _You're disgusting and pathetic. You're not even human. You don't deserve the help he's giving you. You're a weak, nasty freak - and you can't even wear your shoes right._

He grimaced. The thoughts just wouldn't shut up.

"Ready to go?" Martin asked him when he was finally all dressed up and entirely too warm to be standing there in the corridor.

Tim nodded, although the gesture was hesitant and perhaps revealed how entirely unsure he was as to whether now, or ever, was the right moment for this.  
"Don't think it's gonna get any better," he chuckled nervously, tired of arguing with himself. Fine - he was a blind, pathetic, monstrous freak. Martin's arm still felt warm in his, and if he leaned too far into that touch then so be it.

"Where do you want to go? Do you want me to show you around the neighbourhood, or do you think that'd be too much for your first time out?" Martin's voice was casual, but it didn't drown out the surge of fear that Tim felt when he opened the door.

Fresh morning air flooded through the opening, hitting Tim in the face and chest with a soft puff like an enormous breath exhaled by God Himself. He made his way through the gap expecting all through that he'd hit his head onto something, but nothing came, and after the door closed... he reached out his hand, and he knew it was shaking as he swiped it through the nothing that followed.

"It's a little bit terrifying, isn't it?" Martin asked quietly.

He wanted to nod, but all he managed to do was swallow thickly instead.  
"Maybe the whole of the neighbourhood is too much for the first time," he said then in a hoarse, barely audible voice.

"Alright. I'll take you to the park then. Maybe you'll meet a nice dog," Martin offered. "Come, let's go."

"Don't let go of me," Tim pleaded with a forced chuckle to make it sound like a joke even though it most certainly wasn't, and for a moment he forgot how sad that was, how sad _he_ was, to need reassurance for it. Some voice within him argued, or at least wanted to, although he paid it little attention; he would have never thought these things about someone else who was blind, but when it came down to himself... he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand how powerless he felt. It was unbearable.

"I won't," Martin promised; "I won't leave you alone. I won't let you get lost. Alright?"

Tim nodded with a choked sound, and down the steps they went. He still remembered the feel of the wet grass under his feet, even though it was entirely different now with shoes on. The paved path had some dirt on it that scraped against the stone as they walked on it, and the sound was sharp and unpleasant in his ears so he did his best to step lightly where fallen leaves didn't cover the way. The sound of traffic was louder now, and it, too, was sharp; tires on the road, scratching and tearing at the pavement beneath, every turn and every push of the gas pedal a new scar upon the earth. Without intending to, Tim pressed his free hand over his ear. It made the sounds a little more bearable. He'd never heard them like this before. Was it the lack of sight that made them so prominent, or was he just... was this just another symptom of how far away he'd drifted from his humanity? Was this how a wild animal would listen to traffic, each passing car a reminder of every one of its kind that had been torn up in the wheels? He shuddered, and then he sought out Martin's sleeve with his free hand, the other one seeking a firm hold of Martin's own. Martin didn't hesitate letting their fingers join and his arm relaxed, and after a moment they were just walking forwards hand in hand at a pace which felt torturously slow and reminded Tim of what it had been like to climb down the stairs from the attic. Two days... Martin was right. He'd barely been out at all.

"You know, I could really use a nice dog right about now," Tim said tensely, although he did his best to imitate a smile.

"Yeah," Martin sighed; "Me too."  
He stroked Tim's hand with his thumb a few times over before letting out a small chuckle.  
"I've never done this before, you know? I've never been anyone's guide. So - if I'm really bad, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'll really try not to make you trip on anything."

"I've never had a guide, so... you know, impress me."

"No pressure, huh?"

"None," Tim huffed. Terror was gripping him hard by now, but he didn't know how to put it into words, how to make it sound funny instead of pathetic, because it really was - he didn't want to let go of Martin with either of his hands in the fear of touching the nothingness that surrounded them. "Martin?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you, I don't know, lead me to something I can touch?" his voice was audibly out of breath now. There just wasn't enough air... no, there was _too much_ of it, too much of everything, and he couldn't breathe it in properly.

"Oh," Martin let out, "Sure - how about - how about this wall?"

They made a little turn, and Martin brought Tim's hand over to a stone wall. The immense relief that flooded him at touching something, as cold and rough as it was, was undeniable. It made him let out a short, shaky laugh.  
"God, never been this happy about a wall before," he admitted.

"It must be pretty awful," Martin said in turn, "Just... everything. How big it is."

"Yeah. No kidding. Okay, I've - I've touched a wall. We're good. We're still... we're still somewhere. Moving on."

And they did.

"How far away is the park?" Tim asked after a few steps. He felt like for all the slowness with which they were making progress they were still moving really fast, but the truth was that they'd probably barely left the house at all. Every step felt dangerous, and he was always expecting his toes to meet something hard that would cause him to fall, and every time that they didn't, he felt a little smaller in the middle of it all.

"Just a couple streets, really; it usually takes about seven minutes to walk there. I'd say we'll be there in... fifteen? Twenty at most," Martin promised. "So... how's it going?"

"I feel ridiculous," Tim confessed, "I feel like - like I should just be snapping out of this, you know? Like I need to start acting normal, walking normally, you know, _not_ being blind. And then I remember I can't, and then the cycle repeats. I need to stop being blind but, oh, I'm blind! You know? I can't wrap my head around it. I - it feels like I've just been making this up for a laugh, but now I can't remember how to stop. And, God, I feel really bad for making you deal with it."

"Hey, don't," Martin protested, "I want to help you. I really, really want to help you, you know? Besides, it's nice to get out of the house for a bit. So what if we're going slow? I could use a second look at my own street sometimes too, you know, it's... just one of those things you start taking for granted."

"Would you tell me about it?" Tim requested, and Martin held his hand a little tighter for a second.

"Oh! Yeah - yeah, I could definitely tell you about it. Let's see..."

Houses on both sides. Terraced, with little yards in front of each - one with an apple tree, most with an empty parking space. A kid in a window, looking at them. Staring, then hiding behind the curtain when he noticed Martin looking back. A cat, another cat, a _third_ cat in a window. Bikes leaning against walls; _it has to be pretty safe here._ And all the time the paved road just continued underneath them, both moving too fast and going absolutely nowhere, each seam in it a threat as Tim stepped over or into one. _Look - sorry - there's a dog right there. On the opposite side of the road. It's small and brown. Oh, I don't know the breed - maybe a mix?_ The wind whistled in his ears. It bit him hard and Tim missed having a hat to pull over it. At least it wasn't raining now, though maybe the sensation of it would have been welcome, even if the wetness and the cold wouldn't.

"We're here," Martin finally declared.

'Here' felt like an open space, a crossroads; Martin guided Tim down what felt like a small cliff down onto the road and over another soon after. Then there was a fence, a metal fence that he took Tim's hand to with sharp, spear-like ends and stone posts. He leaned into it, and Martin's hand slid back up his arm over to his elbow, and for a moment they stayed there, breathing in the fresh air.

"What does it look like?" Tim asked.

"It's a small park. I like it here," Martin told him, "In the summer I used to come here with a book pretty often, Jon too. We'd just sit around on the grass and read and the sun was always really hot, but there's a lot of shade, lots of old trees to hide under, and a ton of ants. I'm not a big fan of ants anymore, they... got onto the snacks we brought, you'd always have to be careful not to _bite_ into one or something. There's benches, too, but they're always cold and they're hard and not really worth it, except of course probably now since - you know, the grass is going to be wet. Oh, and there's a lot of dogs. Not right now, I can... I can see one, a brown retriever? But this is like, dog hotspot. Everyone walks through here. On the other side there's a small café that sells bad coffee and normal tea and okay pastries, and a bus stop next to it, so getting out of here is pretty easy if you want to go to the city."

"It sounds nice," Tim noted.

Martin made a sound that implied he might have nodded, or a least that he was agreeing.  
"I _really_ like it here," he repeated quietly, "We moved a while ago - it's been closer to a year now, I think. We wanted our own place, Jon's was too small and, well, I didn't want to go back to mine. I never really felt at home anyplace else. But this is good, this - these streets and this park and all. It's good here. Heh. It feels like I've retired. I'm turning 35... I think that's a little too young for retirement, but I do feel old."

His hold of Tim's arm tightened again, and by now Tim knew to expect him to say something else - it seemed to be turning into a way to alert him ahead of time, a subtle gesture that Tim enjoyed. It felt the same as watching him draw breath or turn to look at him, only more present, more physical, and for some reason it made him feel... cared about, remembered.

"So, what are you going to do next?" Martin asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, after all of this is more or less... done," Martin continued, "You'll be alright eventually. What do you want to do with your life?"

A funny question; it implied Tim still had a life to live. He hadn't given it a single thought so far.  
"I really haven't thought that far. Kind of... kind of busy trying to not turn into a monster."

"Yeah, well, it won't last forever, you know," Martin said softly, "One day you'll have that under control and it's just another thing. You used to be chasing after the Stranger and that's how you ended up at the Institute, but you're free of that now, more or less, and Orsinov's dead thanks to you, so... seems like you need to move on, doesn't it?"

"I don't know," Tim said with a shrug - the truth was, looking ahead like that was both relieving and nerve-wracking. He didn't know what to make of it. "Maybe I'll adopt seven dogs and move somewhere with a lot of space. For... for the dogs, not me; I'm going to have the smallest house you've ever seen, actually."

Martin chuckled.  
"Sounds like a dream," he said. Then he seemed to change his mind about ending his sentence there and continued: "I've been thinking about adopting a cat with Jon. I know he likes cats, he - well, you know, he does that thing where he sees a neighbour's cat in the window and he thinks I'm not paying attention so he just looks at it for a long while. I think it'd do him good, too, to have a small animal to take care of. I'm just not sure if we're ready."

"Well, lucky you," Tim scoffed, "You won't need a cat as long as you've got me. I'm a handful to look after."

"Like I said, Tim, it won't be forever," Martin reminded him. "I know it probably feels that way but... things haven't ended for you. Not yet. So... there's a future."

"I don't know how I feel about that," Tim said honestly, leaning his weight onto the spiky fence. "I kind of accepted just being dead already, or as good as dead anyway. Going forwards from there just... sheesh. I don't know, Martin."

"Tough," Martin said with a sigh, "Come, let's go sit down somewhere."

Tim chuckled and let him pull him away from the fence. There were human sounds now, much closer than he was used to, and the truth was that they rather scared him too - he'd heard voices the past years, but he'd learned to expect nothing good of them. Borrowed voice boxes sounded about the same as the real deal, and... and now they were all around him, those sounds of people moving about, chatting, and he had to try hard to remember where he was. Maybe Martin noticed him brushing up closer, maybe he didn't, but Tim sure knew he was doing it; he basically sat on top of Martin when he finally led him to a bench and pulled them both down to sit on it.

"Much better," Martin sighed as they settled there. "Alright, so - we're under an oak tree, I think? Kind of to the side of everything, but with a nice view across the park. There's a mother with a stroller and a toddler, the toddler's picking at something on the path... yep, yep, that's a rock. She's got a rock. Now she's running - the mum's after her and the stroller's just kind of left behind. I'm... I'm not sure if I ever want kids, all of that just looks stressful to me."

He let out a laugh under his breath and separated his hand from Tim's again. Tim crossed his arms over his chest and pulled one leg up on the bench, leaning it to the arm rest beside him.

"How do I look?" he asked, "I mean - do I look like you'd stare at me going past here?"

"No? No, you look - you look normal. I don't think I'd notice anything strange about you if I was just passing by, really," Martin promised.

Tim nodded slowly.  
"I've never been this self-conscious," he said quietly. "It's - I can't tell what I'm doing, you know? I can't tell if I'm looking around weird or... or staring at someone, or if my clothes are wrong, if I'm wearing something inside out, or there's something else just wrong about me."

"You look just fine, really."

For a moment, Tim hesitated, but... he had to ask it eventually.  
"So... how do my eyes look?"

"Kind of - milky? A little blue and opaque. You can't tell from further away, though, I don't think. I don't - I really don't think _anyone_ passing by us notices anything weird about you, Tim, you shouldn't worry about it too much. You look... good," Martin promised.

"No extra arms?"

"No extra arms."

"No tentacles?"

"What? No."

Tim huffed.  
"Fine," he said then, slinking further down on the bench.

The wind was catching up again, and with it came the scent of the city; the mud, the traffic, the wet grass. Tim closed his eyes and leaned his head back until it hit the back of the bench, and he breathed it all in and tried to imagine himself there when everything had been normal - he was just a blink away from being able to look around like always, and the park was somewhere in London within a bus ride's distance from everywhere he knew. He wondered what had happened to his flat. He had to be officially dead, right? Everyone he knew... everyone he'd ever known was thinking of him as someone they'd once known. His family, even... but he didn't want to go there even in his thoughts. It hurt too much. And like this, he wasn't about to drop on their doorsteps either. It was better for them to think that he was gone than to know him this way, wasn't it? 

Beside him, Martin was reflecting his warmth, and his breathing was steady although his nose sounded a little wet with the occasional sniff. Once again Tim tried hard to remember what Martin had looked like before. All he could muster up was the colour of his hair and eyes, the tone of his skin and the clothes he wore, but the longer he held onto the details of his face the more they shifted around, and even his build was changing. He could have been any shape now from what Tim could tell; his body was warm and solid against touch, and that really was the extent of Tim's understanding of what Martin was now. That, and... yeah, it wasn't any use denying it anymore. He wanted to be closer to him.

"I wanted to talk about something, actually," Martin started in a low voice, sounding like he was just coming out of his thoughts.

"I'm all ears. Not going anywhere anytime soon," Tim said with a grimace.

"Yeah," Martin sighed. "Yeah. I don't really know how to start."

He moved, and the sole of his shoe hit Tim's knee as he pulled his leg over the other.

"So I'm just... going to be honest about it, I guess. Is now a good time? Are you - are you ok?" he asked then.

"Sure," Tim said with a shrug, although the way Martin was approaching his subject was making him nervous all over again. "Hit me with it."

"Fine. So... Like I said, I'm just - going to say it as it is. Right."  
Martin drew a breath, then held it for a very long time before letting it out in a sharp exhale.  
"I think I'm crushing on you."

Tim lifted his head very, very slowly off the back of the bench. His heart had just skipped a beat and his fingertips were ice cold, and he straightened up and awkwardly reached for his knee if only to touch something solid, and - well, it was there, and it felt more natural than grasping the iron arm rest it was leaning to.

"Right," he said just as slowly as he'd moved. "Okay, that's -"

It was a lot of things. Primarily, though, it was unbelievable; _he_ was supposed to be the touch-starved individual here. Martin had a boyfriend, though granted it was _Jon_ , and maybe that was a problem on its own. Still, though - him? In this state? It made him want to laugh, but it felt inappropriate. Normally... what would he have felt? Amused? Entertained? Curious? He felt curious now. Bold, almost, if not for the gnawing insecurity within him. No - it was there, certainly enough... that excitement he was used to feeling under these circumstances. The chance and the opportunity tingling at his fingertips, making his lips part for a warm breath.

"You know, it's fine," Martin kept going, his voice nervous and breathless now. "I just - need to make some adjustments, because right now, this isn't really working."

Tim shifted; he turned to face Martin, his eyes seeking his face from the static void in vain. His ears were positively perked and his heart was _racing_ , and all of a sudden he felt very, very warm, and all that need to be close was drifting up to the surface like Martin had just offered to sleep with him. He hadn't, had he? Nope. Still, Tim couldn't reason with his response that easily. God, all this time he'd been holding back and - and Martin had been, too.

He realised too damn late that he was grinning, and the silence was so tense that he could almost swear that Martin was staring at him in return.

"God, I can't do this," Martin whined after a moment had passed, and by the sound of it he was now burying his head in something - he moved, readjusted, and Tim suspected that _something_ might be a combination of his arms and legs. Should he... touch him? He had a good excuse to do so; he couldn't bloody _see_ anything.

"And here I thought I'd lost my edge," he said in a warm, breathy tone.

" _Don't_ ," Martin breathed, his voice now completely muffled even though the annoyance and despair in it carried through well enough. "Don't make a joke out of this. I'm serious."

"Alright? I - what do you want, then?"  
A kiss? A hug? For him to disappear? Tim hugged his knee closer.

"I don't know. I really don't know. I just - I hoped it'd go away, but after last night, I... we can't keep doing things like that. I'm sorry. I think I've been leading you on, I - I gave in too much. But I'm with Jon. I love him. And - and I'm sorry, I guess, about that. I'm sorry that I've gone and made things weird between us when there's no chance in hell that... it'd ever be anything. I think I just... it felt good to be near you. It still... God, I don't know, Tim."

He seemed to be about to break apart, like a dam held back from collapsing by a single thin stick propped against its side.

"I've never been attractive, you know?" he breathed out shakily to continue, "Not like you've always been. I know enough to know that you _know_ that, and nobody's ever thought like that about me. I've barely had any relationships in my life and I - I really wasn't expecting Jon to ever love me back, either. I'm not _missing_ anything. I'm not saying that I'm - I'm jealous. I don't need to be; I have everything I want right here. But it's... tough, being close to someone like you and - and feeling like I'm wanted. Maybe that's not what you've wanted to signal me at all but it's... the way I've felt, and I can't seem to just get over it."

The words stilled something in Tim, and the excitement faded to a backdrop to a much gentler feeling, yet one that ultimately pushed him to move his hand over to Martin's side. He turned the back of his palm to face Martin and moved it closer to him carefully, trying his very best not to end up colliding into him with too much force, and in the end his fingers buried themselves just a little way into the man's cheek, making him jump a little but nevertheless stay to feel the touch that turned into a soft caress of his stubbled cheek and jaw. Tim let out a small, relieved chuckle, his fingertip travelling over to Martin's ear which he flicked playfully before retreating.

"You have issues," he said then, his voice soft.

Martin chuckled wearily.  
"Yeah, I - I know. Thanks."

"I don't know, Martin; maybe I'm simple, but this doesn't look like such a huge problem to me," Tim continued then.

"Yeah?"  
There was a slight hopeful tint to Martin's voice, although he was still speaking it into whatever part of him it was that was muffling his words.

"Yeah, really," Tim said, "Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Just... go with it?"

Martin shifted slowly.  
"What do you mean?" he asked.

Tim shrugged.  
"Go with it," he repeated, "I like you too. I mean, I don't have a problem with this."

Martin sighed.  
"I'm with Jon, Tim, that's really not an option. I'm not leaving him. That's - not even on the table, it's not an option. Period. So - we have to figure out how I can just... get out of this."

"Or don't?" Tim said, "Don't get out of it. Look, I'm not Jon's biggest fan, but I've been with couples before - it's not such a big deal, really."

"You... what?"

The sheer incredulous tone of his voice was enough to make Tim laugh a little. As cold as the wind was, it now felt rather good on him; his mood had turned from down to pretty great in a single twist of events, and the October weather couldn't bring it back again. He wasn't sure what it was exactly - did he really want Martin, or did he just want to hear that he was still attractive, still worth of someone's affection? Well - he _did_ want Martin. The way his lips parted at the very thought of tasting him... but he wasn't sure how serious he was about it. He hadn't really had the time to give it his full, or even _partial_ , attention. All he knew was that Martin smelled good and being close to him made his skin tingle in the best way possible, and yes, that was worth pursuing - even if nothing came out of it, at least he could play around with the thought.

"Yeah," he said with a crooked smile and a tilt of his head, "Look, I'm not saying he'll be alright with it, but if he is, well, I'm not going to say _no_."

"This - isn't about sex, Tim, I'm not..."

"I heard you," Tim reassured him, "You didn't mention sex and you said you liked me, but, well, you know? I'm open to it. Sex and - everything. Hell, I'll do it with Jon if I have to, I don't - I don't think that'd be entirely terrible. It might even be fun, get some of that tension out of the way. But I did hear you, and I don't mean _just_ sex either. It's a bit more difficult to have a relationship with two people... or more, you know... but I've done it before."

Martin drew breath as if to speak, but the only sound that came out was that of his lips parting.

"You're considering it," Tim pointed out in a satisfied tone.

"No," Martin countered him immediately, "I'm not, I'm questioning your sanity. Besides, Jon would _never_ \- I don't think that's the kind of a relationship he'd want."

"But you might?"

"That's not fair," Martin growled, and Tim couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm just saying. You're worried about Jon's opinion, not yours. Like I said... I'm okay with it. Just ask him. Why not?"

"Because that's insane!"

Tim moved his hand over to Martin's side again. He almost had a permission now, didn't he? He found his hand and took a hold of it, and he felt Martin's fingers twitching before he relaxed his hand, neither taking his nor moving away from the touch.

"I'd like to kiss you," he confessed, the thought making him breathless, "but I'm a man of... ah, who am I kidding?"

"You really aren't. A man of honour _or_ dignity _or_ manners, or whatever it was you were going to end that with," Martin growled, but he sounded very content now beneath the act of disapproval - and excited. Tim didn't miss it for a beat. Then he sighed. "I'd - I'd like that. But I can't. I really do love him, Tim. More than anything."

"I know. I'm not asking you to let him go. Just talk to him. Maybe he'll surprise you."

"What could possibly come out of that? He nearly killed you yesterday."

"Kiss and make up, isn't that what they say?"

"Shut the fuck up, Tim. I'm serious."

Tim laughed and lowered his head. His fingers trailed over Martin's skin and he had to use all his willpower _not_ to go for the kiss right there and then.  
"So am I," he said then, "It'd be nice to be loved for a change."

Martin shivered - Tim could feel it against his arm.  
"Don't do that to me. Tim... let's just go home, alright? Forget about this. Forget that I ever brought it up."

Neither of them moved. Then Martin continued: "What... was it like? Did they both know about you? I mean... you said you were with a couple before."

Tim leaned his head back and breathed in the crisp air for a moment. It all felt a thousand years ago now.  
"Yeah," he said then, "I mean, they weren't the only ones, but there was this one couple with whom it lasted for a longer time than most. I lived with them for a couple years. It was... nice - we were in college, and it ended when I moved to London."

"You mean... it got too difficult to keep it up?"

"I didn't want to deal with the distance," Tim said truthfully, "Besides, I had other things I wanted to focus on. A career and... all that."

"Huh," Martin let out, letting his body slide down on the bench. "So you really just broke up because of distance? Not because it was... weird or anything."

"It wasn't weird to us," Tim told him, "It was just... we lived together, and it naturally progressed from there. You know, three young people in a shared house - there was some attraction there from the beginning."

"And it wasn't - there wasn't any drama?"

"No. Most rewarding years of my education, really."

"Huh," Martin said again. "I didn't think you could just do that."

"Well, nobody stopped us. And like I said, it's not the only time I've been with people like that, the rest just weren't couples when we started it or it was a bit more complicated than that. I did bring another couple together, but they didn't need me in the picture after that, so... that hurt a little," Tim chuckled.

"How many people have you been with?" Martin asked a little exasperatedly.

"What counts?" Tim asked in turn. "I've kept busy. I don't like being alone much. And - yeah, it wasn't always a good thing. I wasn't always doing it for the right reasons, either. But that's just life and relationships. Sometimes you get in them to make up for something else."

"You'd really... do that with us?"

"See, you _are_ considering it."

"I'm _not_ ," Martin breathed out in a hiss, "I'm just _asking_ because all of this sounds crazy to me."

Tim tilted his head and sighed.  
"Yeah, I would. Why not?"

"You can't stand to be around Jon for more than five minutes at a time?"

"I don't - fine, fair, _maybe_. Doesn't mean I wouldn't get involved with him."

"You are, by far, the weirdest person I've ever met," Martin scoffed. He still hadn't pulled his hand back.

"It's complicated," Tim laughed, "I won't lie, he annoys the shit out of me sometimes. But I put that in the past like, two hours ago? Clean slate and all that."  
He was quiet for a moment, and the blush that crept on his face was deep and real, so he turned his gaze down and hoped that it would at least make him seem more sincere.  
"I would like to be with you, Martin. I won't lie. And if that means Jon's involved in it, then fine. Why not? You probably love him for a reason, and it's not like I _have_ to, or that _he_ has to, anyway. As long as he's alright with involving me."

"Tim - just a question," Martin said hesitantly. "If there wasn't any sex involved, would that... change your mind?"

Tim tilted his head and shrugged.  
"No," he replied neutrally. "I mean, that's a bit weird and all, but like you said there's more to a relationship than just sex. It'd be fine, I guess."

"You're... serious about this," Martin concluded.

"Yeah," Tim said with another shrug, "I am. Dead serious."

"I - don't really know what to say," Martin told him in a defeated voice, "I - I guess I could talk to him. It's not like it'll hurt. He'll just think I've gone insane, but... that's really nothing new, so... yeah."

A content smile spread on Tim's lips and he sighed warmly.  
"Sounds good to me," he said and held Martin's hand tighter.


	9. Discomfort

* * *

  
Jon couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it - the full freedom to check in on Martin whenever he wanted, and to have him visible in the background to everything he did, no matter the distance between them. He also couldn’t deny the guilt he felt for it, although he found himself smiling to that feeling. It was ironic, but... it seemed he’d never change. He was a watcher, wasn’t he? With or without the Panopticon, this was just who he was and Martin knew it, and that’s why they’d set their rules. Now he was breaking them, with permission as it was yet it felt like doing something quite forbidden, and he could enjoy that, that little taste of what shouldn’t have been, because every time he looked, Martin was content or else at least safe, and although he’d been nervous most of the time, he hadn’t felt _fear_ once. If he would, Jon would feel it, whether he was focused on him or not; that was what the god beyond the veil _wanted_ to see, so a deal there was easy to strike.

And yet, nothing.

He left work early and felt the crisp afternoon air bite at his cheeks the second he was out of the Institute. One detour and he’d be home - whatever he would face there seemed... mundane, although he tried his best not to dwell on it further. Martin would explain it to him, and then he would know about it, but not before - he’d felt it as he’d kept his focus on Martin through the walk he’d taken to the park and back home, those shivers of anticipation and excitement where Jon had expected none, and yes, _yes_ he was jealous, but he _trusted_ Martin. Whatever it was, there was an explanation for it, and he’d hear it, and maybe he wouldn’t like it but that all was a problem for the future: what mattered now, right now, was the box in his hand and the bus he was taking and the low music in one earbud that kept him company through the ride back.

Leaves had covered most of the street he walked up to get home. He could barely hear the crunching of his shoes against the pavement when he entered the front yard and climbed the steps up to turn the key in the lock. Inside, the house was warm, much warmer than the Institute and its cave-like, always poorly lit interior that he’d come to love and dread in almost equal amounts. It was his, wasn’t it? His _domain_ as far as those still applied to the world as it stood now. But if the Magnus Institute was his domain then this was his hideout, his _nest_ , and he felt at home nowhere else but here.

And, of course, Martin was there. He came into view almost immediately upon hearing Jon enter the house, and he was smiling, although Jon could tell there was something reserved in the smile - an anxiety, perhaps, of what he’d seen and felt throughout the day. As if Jon was going to mention it, or else make a scene. All he wanted was a cup of coffee and a sense of still being loved: that was enough. Tim’s presence in the house, for the moment, didn’t matter and Jon hoped he’d stay hidden for a moment longer, long enough that he could embrace Martin, and when Martin’s body collided with his and he had his arms around him and his lips pressed against his temple, for a moment, everything was almost... perfect.

”Did you have a good day in hell?” Martin asked, nuzzling him before parting, both his hands still staying on Jon’s as he pulled away.

”An average one,” Jon described it with a tilt of his head, his eyes keen on Martin for any sign on him of what he’d been doing all day, but there was none; his brown sweater was a little crooked on his shoulders, and its sleeves went much further down his hands than the wrists, and he was still wearing the trousers he liked to put on in the morning that he wouldn’t have come to work in. ”A young woman came in with a statement that might help us later, but it seems... either we are keeping the local monsters in fear, or they’ve simply lost interest in terrifying the common people in favour of some more sinister plot that we’ll inevitably have to uncover in the future, as there’s very little work to do day to day for me.”

”I guess I’m glad not to be working right now,” Martin laughed quietly, ”I’d just end up dusting folders and triple-checking your organization every day, all day long.”

”Or you’d be drinking tea and reading books instead of doing anything useful at all,” Jon prodded, ”Don’t think I haven’t spotted you before.”

Martin chuckled. His hands were warm as he held Jon’s, and he winked slyly.

”What, are you going to fire me? I’m so scared,” he said in a low, dramatic tone.

Jon breathed a heavy sigh.

”We just might be working at the worst place in London,” he said then, and finally moved past the corridor. ”And now, I’m going to have a cup of coffee; where’s our guest?”

”Upstairs,” Martin answered, ”I gave him my phone so he could listen to some audiobooks, he’s been at it for a couple hours since we came back from a walk. I’ve never felt that much pressure, Jon, I swear; I didn’t really think about everything that goes into taking a blind man outside. There’s so much I need to be aware of that I don’t usually pay any attention to, like... I can’t show him the black cat in our neighbour’s window, I have to _tell_ him it’s there. And then I have to tell him when we’re crossing the road so he doesn’t stumble or anything, and - I felt really dumb the whole time.”

”Well, you won’t be having to borrow him your phone again,” Jon said as they entered the kitchen. He let down his bag and handed it to Martin, who took it with a curious expression. ”I got him one.”

”Oh,” Martin let out, ”Smart move.”

He started to dig into the bag - there wasn’t much there to see, just a wallet, a library book and the box that Jon had detoured for. He pulled it out, placed Jon’s bag on the counter and examined it for a moment.

”Would you like to give it to him?” he asked.

Jon shrugged.

”You can do it if you’d like,” he said, ”It’ll take some setting up and - I’ve never been great with that.”

”Understood,” Martin chuckled, ”Whenever's a good moment, I’ll just - I’ll go upstairs and we’ll sort it out together.”

Jon nodded.

”First, Martin...” he began, and Martin froze for a moment. Then he relaxed again, visibly, and sighed with a small defeated smile.

”Yeah, alright,” he said, ”I guess you already know, again, that I want to talk with you.”

Jon nodded again.

”Well, you better make that coffee strong,” Martin said, ”because I think I need a cup, too.”

”In this house,” Jon started wearily, ”we've replaced alcohol with caffeine. Understood, Martin - I’ll make enough for you as well.”  
Then he smiled, his eyes meeting Martin's.  
"It has to be really bad for you to ask for a cup of _strong_ coffee specifically."

Martin smiled, his head tilting as he shrugged.  
"I'm just nervous," he admitted.

"How was it, anyway? I assume I'll hear more about that later, but... you did speak with him," Jon continued.

Martin hesitated for a moment before leaning his weight to the wall and crossing his arms with a sigh.  
"Yeah, I - you'll hear more of it in a minute. But I did talk with him. I don't actually know what to think of it, really, so... your input will be nice."

"Curious," Jon noted dully, finally turning the coffee maker on.

Martin grimaced.  
"Just you wait," he said. "Would you like to get comfortable for this very... uncomfortable conversation? Pack up some pillows and, I don't know, build a fort where I can feel exactly the degree of an idiot I am but, like... sheltered?"

It made Jon chuckle. He shook his head.  
"Sounds like an awful amount of effort for a conversation."

"Fine. So we'll just have it here in the kitchen - you know, like adults. _Before_ I go set up a phone with Tim. That, obviously, depends on if you'll even let me in a room with him after this. I don't know, Jon, I feel like a moron already."

"I trust you," Jon reminded him, although _something_ was certainly gnawing at the bottom of his stomach now. The coffee was dripping, and Martin was avoiding his gaze by staring at the coffee maker and the steady fall of dark drops into the pot itself. "Martin... you're making me feel ill."

"I know, and I'm sorry," Martin sighed, "Alright, firstly, nothing bad happened. Okay? So - just - you don't need to worry about that. I behaved, Tim... behaved, I guess, we just had the weirdest conversation I've ever had with anyone in my life."

"I don't know, Martin, I've had some pretty strange conversations with you. Rewind a year or two, and... pick any one of them, really."

Martin glanced at him and dared to smile.  
"Alright, fine. So - I told him, I told him how I feel and that I'd like it if we could figure out some way to, you know, make this whole thing less bad for everyone involved. And - that's about when we got sidetracked, or he did, because he thinks this isn't a problem."

Jon lifted his brow.  
"I wish I could say I was surprised," he said, and Martin rubbed at his arm in clear discomfort.

"You weren't? Because _I_ was," he said, grimacing.

"I trust him about as far as I can throw him when it comes to relationships," Jon huffed, "I was his boss long enough to be _aware_ of what he was doing to get the information he pulled for us, and I'm almost certain that sometimes he was using that research as an excuse to get close to people."

"Yeah, well, that's - great, because - God, Jon, maybe you should just go talk to him."

"I'd rather talk with you about _our_ relationship," Jon pointed out.

"I'm not sure how much this is about our relationship," Martin said in a tone of moderate despair, "I don't even know how to repeat what he said. Alright - so, he... I don't know if I'd say he has _feelings_ for me, but he's certainly interested. So - that didn't make it any better."

"Martin, I know what you told me and I know it feels flattering, but... he's not very picky about his partners."

"You sound like you've had this conversation with him already," Martin replied dryly, "and I know, alright? But I can't say it didn't feel good. You know what I said; I've never really been desired, and it feels... it's really, really flattering, Jon."

Jon felt a little flash of pain somewhere in his gut, and he had to turn his head away.  
"I know that I'm not the best at expressing it, Martin, but... I love you, and - if a lack of _desire_ is bothering you, I... I need to know what I can do differently."

"Oh, God, Jon, no - there's nothing wrong with you, or how you love me," Martin answered quickly, and his hand dropped off the shoulder he'd been rubbing to catch Jon's hand instead. "I know how it sounds, but I'm really not missing anything. I promise. You're perfect for me. I love you the way you are and - and being loved by you is the happiest I've ever been. I'm sorry, I just... I don't know how to make it sound softer. Nothing I feel for Tim has anything to do with you or - or anything you'd lack. You don't."

He hesitated a moment - phrasing whatever he was going to say next, Jon assumed - but throughout that pause Jon struggled with himself to look at him again. He _trusted_ Martin. He trusted what they had together, and the future they'd built, even if he often had difficulties trusting a future for himself; with Martin, everything was different. There was a deep need to reach within the man's mind and pull out the answers he craved for but he'd made a promise and he'd die before breaking it, and this was not worth breaking Martin's trust in _him_ for; he just... wished he could know, without Martin's words, the exact things that were going through his head now.

"It's more..." Martin started again, his gaze lowered. "It's... it's _less_ that you're lacking something, and more that the way Tim makes me feel is - it's different to how I feel with you. It's like it's two separate feelings entirely. There's the way I love you, and you _know_ that if it came to that I'd follow you to the end of the world and beyond and that I wouldn't hesitate, not for a moment, to do anything for you. I'd take a bullet for you, Jon, and I'd take _worse_ than a bullet. You know that. I - I hope you know that, anyway."

"I do," Jon confirmed, and the pain in his chest eased up a little bit.

"And then there's, well, whatever I feel for Tim - it's... it's more in the moment, you know? I'm not sure I'd follow him to a haunted house after dark, whereas with you I've already done that a thousand times and if you asked me to do it again, I wouldn't ask questions why. But he wants me in a different way than you do, and it makes me feel special, and I do _want_ him in return, and it has... it has nothing to do with the way I feel for you, Jon. It's not that I feel more or less towards you because of this either, I'm not - I don't have a limited capacity for loving people or wanting to be around people or - or wanting to be close to them. And I know that sounds awful, I really, really can't make it sound like I want it to sound - like this isn't your fault, which it _isn't_ \- I just... he's so attractive. And I'm so, so weak for the way he makes me feel."

"And... I don't make you feel that way," Jon concluded, and Martin let out a sharp sigh and shook his head.

"No," he said, his voice clear in his anger towards himself, "No, you don't, because you make me feel _different_ about myself. A different kind of amazing that I - I wouldn't trade for anything. Like I'm worth the world, like... like I'm beautiful and good and worth killing and dying for. And that's the best feeling in the world, Jon, and I don't get that from _anyone_ but you."

A small smile lingered on Jon's face as he nodded, and now that Martin had aimed his gaze back to him, he knew the gesture had been acknowledged so he said nothing more to it.

"And him?" he asked instead.

"Like - like I'm not a toad," Martin said, grimacing. "I don't feel like a toad around you either but that's just it, I feel like a toad at all other times, and he kind of... wipes that away. He makes me feel like I'm nice to touch and be close to, and like I'm _funny_. I love the way he makes me laugh. I also love the way you make me laugh. Do I have to remember to compliment you after every sentence where I try to describe how he makes me feel, or can we just _assume_ I love these same things about our relationship? I feel like I'm just - adding words and making it sound less and less genuine every time, Jon."

Jon let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.  
"You're adding words that are keeping me from wanting to physically fight this man I'm supposed to be keeping safe in our home, Martin."

"Wait, you'd - you'd actually fistfight him over me?" Martin asked, squinting.

"Yes, Martin, and I'm feeling a particularly deep desire to do exactly that right now. I'm not void of human instinct yet," Jon confirmed, and Martin let out a chuckle.

"Okay, so... please don't?"

"I'm resisting the urge - for now."

Martin sighed.  
"Anyway," he started again, "He just... said that he doesn't mind it. Not - me having a crush on him, but also that I'm already taken. And I know how that sounds but - he never told me to cheat on you. _Don't_ go fistfight him yet, please, Jon - just listen."

Jon tried to stop burying his nails into his palm. It wasn't easy, not on the side that he wasn't holding Martin's hand in his. On that side, however, he held tighter, as if physically clinging to him would keep him closer in spirit, too.

"He never suggested that," Martin continued, "Not _once_. I need to be clear on that, both that I'd never do that, I'd never even entertain the thought, there's _nothing_ I would ever do to break your trust or hurt you - if he'd suggested that, I would have left him there on the spot, I'm not kidding, Jon. But also that... he didn't suggest that at all."

"Instead?"

"Instead," Martin said and sighed, now turning his gaze away again; he pinned it to the coffee maker and stared at it intently, his eyes following each drop that made its way down from the filter and into the pot. "Instead, he - said he'd done it with others before. Like... just been a part of the deal. And - I know you don't want that. I know you don't want to share me, or whatever, I - I get that. I don't need to ask you that, I know it's stupid, but - okay, you know what? You really should be talking about this with him instead of me."

"I think I would kill him."

"Great," Martin growled, closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. "Just great. Well, so, there's that; he told me he's open to being with _us_ , if there's a chance in hell you'd agree to it. Not just me, but you as well."

Finally, Jon let go of his hand; he needed to lean into the counter and take a moment to himself, and he did so, lifting his hands to his face and pressing his knuckles into the small muscles of his brows and eventually against his eyes as well. He rubbed them for a while before letting his hands down, and he examined the kitchen beyond Martin as if looking for something in it, but the truth was that his head was rather empty, and in the moment it was nearly blissful - it was the kind of a silence he didn't get very often, uninterrupted by the constant presence of _knowledge_ of everything around him.

"Why would I ever want..." he started, but the sentence died out. He was _exhausted_ , and instead of saying more he shook his head and moved across the kitchen space to take a mug out of the cupboards. He handed one to Martin as well and without another word, he poured them both a portion from the coffee pot before replacing it and silently drinking the scalding liquid with no other preparation whatsoever.

The pain over his lips gave him a shiver of... pleasure, was it? It awakened something within him that had all but withdrawn previously, and in a flash he felt an intense urge to throw something.

"Jon?" Martin called to him gently, a milk carton in one hand and his cup in the other, although he hadn't poured yet.

"Is that what you want?" Jon asked him, his voice somewhat broken, like gravel.

"I don't know what I want, if I'm honest with you, Jon," Martin replied slowly. He poured the milk into his cup and returned it in the fridge before continuing. "But... yeah, I liked the thought. I like - the _idea_ of it. I don't think it's realistic. I don't think it'd work out. And I want to be yours and I love being _just_ yours, too, I don't - want to be a resource or - or split between people. But the way he made it sound, like it's... for _all_ of us, I... I didn't hate that. I guess that's it - the selfish part of me just wants to have you both and have you be happy that way. I know it's not going to happen. So - I guess I'll tell him that when I go upstairs."

Jon was still staring away from him, at something that wasn't really there and which he couldn't see either. There was a sound from upstairs - a knock, and then some light, muffled cursing - and he lingered on that for a moment before coming back to Martin. He looked at him and reflected on how desperately he loved him, how much Martin meant to him, and he tried to imagine him with someone else; tried to picture how he'd feel if it wasn't him holding Martin, if he was watching it from the outside, and his body tensed and his mouth tightened and he shivered, although he wasn't sure what emotion had caused it. It was funny, really, how he couldn't even take the step to imagine that someone being _Tim_ of all people: a flesh and blood person he knew was the step he couldn't take even in his own head, the thought of a faceless stranger was already bad enough that it made him feel like he couldn't breathe. Then he braced himself and took that step anyway, eyes closing and his imagination drawing the picture for him, and he felt... nothing. The pain subsided, and what he was left with was the same kind of nothingness that he had when he tried to reach inside Tim's head. Just quiet, with the thought of Tim kissing the man that Jon loved more than he'd ever loved a person before.

Slowly he opened his eyes again and looked at Martin, and he placed his mug down on the counter and walked to him and pulled him into an embrace that shook Martin's coffee which he'd been sipping while waiting for Jon to recover. He held him tight and buried his face in the pit of his neck and let himself hurt there for a little while, but at least he was there and at least Martin was holding him in return and everything felt... normal, and the thoughts in his head were just thoughts, possibilities floating about in the air that nevertheless did not change this moment from what it was now.

"I love you, Jon," Martin breathed against his hair and Jon nodded. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"I... I need some time," Jon said into Martin's shoulder before hesitantly pulling back and away from him. "This wasn't exactly what I expected to come home to, and - I don't think I'm in a good place to think about it right now."

Martin bit his lip and grimaced; Jon knew he was hurting, too, but there was nothing he could say to make it better.  
"We'll be alright, yeah?" Martin asked, and it made Jon chuckle a little even if the sound was hollow and faint.

He nodded.  
"Just give me some time, Martin."


	10. (Un)Involved

* * *

  
Jon needed a day, then two, then three, and at the end of the fourth, Martin followed him to work. He couldn't stay out forever; the shakes were back, that hollow endless nausea and the tiredness and the headaches, but the truth was... the morning he closed the door behind him and took the brisk walk down the street hand in hand with Jon, he felt _relieved_ to be going back to work again. It at least felt normal, even though Martin wasn't sure if their _relationship_ was normal _;_ they were still sitting next to one another on the bus and coming home to share the same bed, and everything inbetween imitated normalcy to its best potential. Even though Martin could feel that something was off in the background, at the very least they had this sense of returning to the usual... of moving forwards, of making progress. He tried not to pester Jon about the question that was always haunting him in the background - what good would it do? Jon would bring the subject up again once he would be ready for it, though the more time passed, the more Martin grew concerned that the damage he'd done by opening his mouth in the first place went deeper than the most superficial layers of trust he'd had to break for it. And Jon, being Jon... he didn't talk about it, and wouldn't until he was certain of what it was that he was feeling, what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to address it all. If Martin tried, and Martin _had_ tried, after all it was on his mind all day and all night every day, he simply shyed away and locked up the way that only Jon could, and that was that. He knew ways into his own head that Martin couldn't follow which truly rivalled the Lonely in just how unapproachable he could become, but if he wanted to be alone - excessively, consistently and to the point where it was making Martin feel like he'd built a wall between them - then there was very little Martin could do but hope that he'd be ready to come back eventually.

A shrill, high-pitched scream tore apart the afternoon and made Martin nearly jump out of his skin. He muttered a curse and looked wildly about; the park was still, nothing too strange about it, it was the same as when he'd entered it some twenty minutes earlier. _They_ had entered it - like on many other days since the first one - but he really hadn't been paying much attention to Tim since they'd sat on the bench, where... yes, Tim was still there, right behind Martin. His expression was sharp and he seemed focused and tense, and when Martin followed his gaze he saw a boy rushing away from them as fast as he could run.

It didn't take long to put two and two together.

"Tim - what the hell did you do?" Martin asked in a sharp exhale, his gaze jumping back to the man sitting on the bench behind him.

"What? I'm bored - and hungry, by the way," Tim replied dryly, "Let me live a little, alright?"

For a moment, Martin did nothing but stare. He couldn't connect the necessary dots and it just - it didn't make any _sense_.  
"By scaring _kids?"_ he asked then, incredulous; _"_ Tim - what... what are you doing?"

"You should really be thanking me, you know?" Tim answered in a bothered tone, "Who knows, maybe I'm recruiting the future employees of the Magnus Institute right here, right now. It's fine. I'm not going to traumatize some kid for a lifetime over a cheap laugh, alright? I barely did anything. I looked a little funny for a second. He can't even trust himself about it, it's like he never really saw it at all."

Martin grimaced in horror.  
"You _can't do_ that," he snapped, "That's completely - you just can't _do_ that!"

"No. I can't do that. I can't do anything, I've figured that much out already," Tim said with a sigh and leaned back in his bench. "And still I'm supposed to be practicing somehow. That's what Jon wanted, wasn't it? Yet I can't practice with him and I can't practice with you, so what is it, really? The kid's _fine,_ Martin - and I don't have much of a choice, do I? Or would you rather just have me sit back and wait until something comes and offs me first, before I ever get a chance to even try to learn to defend myself? Because - no thanks. I'm done being powerless."

He adjusted; his voice was rough but quiet, and his words may have been short and impatient but he spoke them calmly enough, like he'd practiced this speech before.

"Maybe I rely on you and Jon for everything in my everyday life," he continued; "you make my food and you take me up and down the fucking stairs all day long, you set out my clothes and you pay my bills - but neither of you will give me the one thing I need the most. You can't feed me, _really_ feed me, and you can't train me either, you've already made that clear. So what, are you just going to let me starve? Again? What about the rest? What about my _safety?_ It doesn't seem to concern anybody but me anymore. It's so easy for you to just toss me in a corner and forget about me until you want to bring me out to play with. I'm not your fucking rescue dog and I won't be treated like that anymore, Martin."

A heavy feeling settled into Martin's chest, some kind of a discomfort stuck between anger, disbelief and heavy, heavy guilt.  
"I thought you said you never wanted to turn your powers on innocents," he found himself saying as if to dodge the blame he knew was well-deserved.

"Sure - I've wanted a lot of things. Turns out I don't have a fucking _choice_ , Martin. If not like this then how exactly do you want me to practice? I've been doing this for a week and you haven't even noticed. I freak out a person here and there and nobody's ever the wiser, I'm not _hurting_ them, I'm just making them a bit uneasy. They can't believe their own eyes and even if they did, nobody else will. At worst they'll just come and complain to _Jon_ about it at the Institute. I'm not hunting them, I'm just being a clown. That's what it feels like, anyway; I'm a one man Circus of the Other. Continuing the grand legacy, and I don't even fucking get paid for it."

Martin swallowed.  
"You've been doing this _for a week?_ " he asked, his voice colourless.

Tim shrugged.  
"I've been doing it this whole time, if I'm honest with you," he said, "We just didn't go anywhere for the first week, did we? So I was doing it around you, around Jon, nobody ever told me to stop. Now we've been going out and I've been trying it out whenever the two of you haven't been looking. Maybe it doesn't matter to you if I live or die anymore, but I haven't given up on myself. I don't know if you guys have, but I still think it's pretty _fucking_ important that I figure out how to control my - my _powers_ \- because if I don't learn to, I'm going to hurt someone again. And maybe this time Jon won't be there to stop me."

Martin sat down. His stomach was burning and his chest was aching and constricted.  
"I'm angry at you," he announced, but the truth was that he was more angry at himself than Tim.

"Well, tough, because I'm right and you _know_ that. Both of you have just been ignoring me for the past - past however long, going to work and feeding off of your statements like it's not a big deal that I'm starving all day and there's nothing I can do about it. What's the plan here, Martin? Really."

For a moment, Martin just glared at him. Then his gaze softened, and he thought the words over.  
"Alright, so you're angry at us too. That's fair," he summarised.

"Oh yeah, breaking news, Timothy Stoker is pissed off again," Tim muttered bitterly.   
He lowered his gaze and shivered. It took him a long time to speak, but Martin really had nothing more to give, so instead, he let the silence stretch.   
"It just feels," Tim finally carried on, "like I'm an afterthought. A burden. You don't want to think about me, Jon doesn't want to think about me, and I get it, I'm a _lot_ to handle. But maybe you shouldn't have brought me in if you weren't going to stand by it. You can't just _forget_ about me and hope I figure my way around somehow."

"Tim, that's not - that's not it at all," Martin offered, and the frustration that had sparked within him was toning off now. He didn't _like_ it, but at least there was a logic that Tim was following - even if it didn't quite reach up to scaring random children in the park. "I know Jon probably doesn't want to think about you but I'm always thinking about you and trying to figure out how to help you. I really am."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to be doing with myself, Martin?" Tim asked sharply, "I hurt you, everyone said it was okay somehow, but then it was - _I_ was - just put back in the closet and the door was shut and nobody's taken me out since, it's like if you don't think about me I'll go away. I can feel it, Martin, I can feel myself getting stronger and at the same time I can feel myself getting _weaker_. I need something to feed me, and I can't feed off of you, and Jon would probably kill me if I tried to take anything from him again, so what am I supposed to be doing here? What options do I have?"

"Why couldn't you just _say_ something?" Martin spoke a little louder than he'd intended. "Why are you pulling this - this elaborate scene to remind me, if that's what you think you're doing, about your needs? Why can't you just _ask_ me instead?"

"Because nobody's fucking listening to me. Nobody ever did, and nobody's listening now. I'm just waiting to hear back from you two - all the time. About me, about you, about Jon, about everything, it's like nobody's got the time to tell me what happens next," Tim hissed. "I'm not _actually_ your fucking pet, Martin."

"What are you even talking about?" Martin asked, his chest aching with frustration. "What do you _want_ , Tim?"

"I want to know if Jon can _ever_ make up his mind about me, about how I'm going to be keeping myself alive - and if he's _ever_ going to get around to figuring out what he feels about us, because ever since he learned about your feelings, I'm thin air to him," Tim snapped, and his words were followed by a silence so mutually strangled and surprised that it nearly made Martin laugh.

"Huh," he said then. "So we come back to that."

Tim leaned his head into his hand.  
"I guess. Martin, I'm - I'm tired. I feel awful. My head hurts, my body hurts, I feel like I can't breathe right, I feel like I'm too weak to get out of the bed on a good day. My head's not right and my thoughts aren't - they're not right. Nothing's _right_. I need to feed on something. I don't want to hurt anyone, and I don't want to be a burden, but I know I _am_ hurting people and I know that I _am_ a burden and all through that I know I'm not welcome in the only place I have to stay in, so what... what do you want from _me_ , Martin?"

With those words, most of the anger in Martin was gone. Instead, he felt awful; he really hadn't been thinking of it lately. What he _had_ been thinking about was his relationship with Jon, and he'd escaped into the archives much like Jon had been doing, and they'd spent time together there when at home it felt difficult now - the unanswered question was always present there, but outside the house, it was easier to pretend like nothing was wrong. Had he really been treating Tim like a pet? He looked back on the past week, and a blush rose to his cheeks. Yes. He really had. He left him in the morning, good thing that he didn't literally barricade or lock him in a single room with the bare minimum entertainment to get him through the day, and then he took him out for a walk, and yes, both him and Jon were feeding him, he had three warm meals a day and a bed to sleep in, but neither of them had made _any_ progress into figuring out how to feed the Stranger in him. Maybe they'd just wanted to forget about the whole thing - was it any wonder if Tim had turned to feeding off of bypassers?

"Did you really do that to get my attention? The kid, I mean," Martin asked then.

Tim tilted his head and shrugged; he wasn't looking in Martin's direction anymore.  
"Maybe. I mean. Yeah, I did," he said then.

"What about him? Did you ever stop to think about how he'll feel?"

"Christ. He'll be fine, Martin, he's probably seen worse than me on a bad day."

"Yeah, about that. I really don't think a _child_ needed more than all of them have already been through, what with the end of the world and everything," Martin told him, "Even if they don't exactly remember it - it's still underneath there somewhere."

Tim shrugged again.  
"He'll be fine," he just repeated. "What, do you want me to go and apologise?"

"No, I just... please, Tim, just _talk_ to me next time, alright?"

Martin watched Tim turn away from him and cross his arms over his chest, but he looked more afraid than he looked angry, and Martin could relate to that - he didn't feel alright, either. Instead of pointing any of this out, he sighed and reached his fingertips to touch Tim's sleeve.

"I'm sorry for treating you like a pet," he said softly.

Tim let out a huff of breath and his arms seemed to press against his chest more firmly, but only for a moment. Martin leaned closer to him, then into him, and rested his head on his shoulder.

"Tell me," he coaxed him, "what's on your mind? Let's fix this. Where do you want to start?"

"I want Jon to figure himself out," Tim said without hesitation, "I want to know if I'm even allowed in the house anymore."

"He's not going to throw you out."

"He's avoiding me. _You're_ avoiding me," Tim countered, and Martin had to admit it.

"I'll talk to him again tonight. So... what next?"

"Give me something to destroy. Something I don't have to be afraid of hurting or - or ruining. I need to just let go for a bit. I just... I need something to tear apart."

Martin peered up at Tim.  
"For the Stranger?" he asked, and Tim nodded stiffly.

"Yeah."

"Alright. I think - I think we can do these two things. Maybe not tonight... well, Jon might be - I don't know, really. We'll talk tonight. I promise. As for feeding your god, I can't guarantee it, but..."

"But you'll try?"

"I'll try, Tim. Promise. And - and what else can I say? It needs to be done whether I want it or not. Whether you want it or not. Whether... Jon wants it. But it's - I mean - he's got to be feeling it by now, too. What we got when we found you wasn't much. There wasn't any real _fear_ in there, just constructs and puppets. He can't keep himself fed on things like that."

Tim nodded.  
"Fine."

His arms relaxed, and eventually he reached one hand over to stroke Martin's hair; his nails were longer than Jon's, and Martin thought absently that he was probably popular amongst the pets he'd given scritches to over the years. It was easy to close his eyes to the touch, even though the thought of returning home was now making him feel a certain sense of dread that haunted him all the way into that calm place.

"Sorry," Tim said then. "What I did was stupid. And a bit cruel. You're right."

Martin nodded.  
"To be honest, Tim, I'm..." he hesitated for a moment, and a part of him - a large part of him, really - just wanted to be there in silence forever, but it came too close to giving in to how he felt, and... that wouldn't do. He'd already promised himself he'd grow over this whole thing. He really had no choice. And still... he couldn't deny how nice this felt. Being close. "I'm scared of hearing it."

"Hearing what?"

"Either way. I'm scared - scared that Jon will tell us no, we can't have this. And that's what he's obviously going to say, and I'm not really eager to feel the pain of it, but at least I expect it. The other thing is that... I'm really scared of the alternative, too. What if he says, somehow, against all the odds, that we should... you know? Be together. That's freaking me out just as much."

Tim chuckled, and like an echo, Martin chuckled too.

"Is that why we're still just sitting here?" he asked.

Martin let out a sigh. His gaze followed a woman passing them by - she was tall with a long black coat that hugged her shape and she was raising her collar against the wind as she went by, and he wondered, briefly as it was, where she was heading. Home, perhaps? To a store, or perhaps to a lover? Maybe she was just trying to catch the bus after work. Either way, she had a certain aura to her... aura that Martin was sure he could recognise. It wasn't rare these days to find people so clearly marked by the Fears, but it still made him feel some kind of way when he walked into someone who'd been touched by the Lonely. She didn't look like the kind of a person. Then again... he lifted his gaze and just barely saw a glimpse of Tim's face past his hand still petting his hair. She didn't look the part but neither did Martin. Here he was, sitting by someone he... _loved_ , and he was still just as marked as the rest of them. Would _always_ be. The Lonely was within him and a part of who he was - maybe it had really been there forever.

"Yeah, I guess," he said once the woman had passed. "Do you want to go?"

Tim nodded.  
"I'd rather have this over with before I really do eat someone's face. You know?"

"Please... don't. Just - just don't. Enough of this."  
Martin shifted and pulled himself up from the bench. His hair was sticking up now, and he took a brief moment to pat it back down: then he offered his hand to Tim, his fingertip brushing his cheek to announce its presence.  
"Come on."

Tim caught it and let him pull him up, and Martin crossed his arm with his and took him towards the nearest gate back to the street.

"So, how is he? He still around?" Tim asked, nodding his head vaguely towards the middle of the park. "The kid."

Martin squinted as they turned around the gates, seeking out the child's figure from amongst the few people still strolling by. At first he didn't find him, but then he spotted his brown jacket merging with a group of other children, most of them still in uniforms. He didn't seem frightened anymore. Was that the same child? Martin was almost certain of it.

"Still here; he just went back to his friends, I think," Martin told him then and turned his head back to the street in fear that he'd quite literally walk into something if he didn't, or worse, he'd make Tim do it instead. "He seems to be alright."

"No harm done, then?"

"Wait until he has to sleep and fully expects you to be crawling out from the closet or under the bed."

Tim huffed with a smile. The thought seemed to satisfy him, and Martin rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure how he felt about this little glimpse to the side of Tim that was... that really _was_ a monster, and capable of hunting the same as any of them. Even if he'd done no real damage, the reality of it was still chilling.  
"Drop here, be careful," he reminded Tim as they crossed the street.

"Why _is_ that there, anyway? Can't it just slope down? Does this city hate blind people or something?"

"I mean, probably?" Martin sighed. "I look at it differently now. So many places are just... unfriendly. I wouldn't want to take you to central London anytime soon, but I guess we'll have to go eventually. You probably want it, too. Maybe it's designed better - central and all that. But I'm afraid it won't be."

"You know what I _really_ want?" Tim asked, his voice thoughtful. "I want to go to the Institute. No, seriously - I want to know if I'm like, physically unable to enter or something."

"Well, whatever pretended to be Sasha for a year could make it in just fine, really - and so did Prentiss, and, God, you have no idea how many others after," Martin said wearily. "I'd say you could enter just fine, I just don't think you'd feel welcome."

"So you're saying it'd be like living with Jon all over again?" Tim scoffed.

Martin looked at him sharply, for all the good that it did either of them.  
"You know, Jon runs that place now - I bet it'd be way worse for you, actually," he said then.

"Always hated how it feels like someone's breathing down your neck in there," Tim said tensely.

Martin pulled him closer to keep his arm from hitting a wall that they passed, and he moved them to the middle of the street as they walked slightly uphill towards home. He reflected on that for a moment - it was really funny how _used_ he was to the feeling of being watched. After the Change, all he'd ever felt was being watched, like a thousand eyes were always focused upon him and every move he made and every breath he took. Nothing had been invisible or private for such a long time that in comparison, the Institute was nothing. And... of course, he did live with Jon. No matter how much Jon promised and did to not violate his boundaries and his privacy, there was only so much an entity that could know everything at will could do to avoid knowing some things, at least, that weren't meant for him to know. It was just part of it all, Martin thought; part of living with him, of loving him, to accept that he would sometimes answer before a question was asked, and sometimes know something else that Martin didn't want to hear or think about. Sometimes, though, it was hard to tell between Jon _knowing_ something and him just... just knowing something - like when Martin desperately craved a cold glass of orange juice but couldn't bother to leave his poetry for it, and then Jon was there, knocking on the door carrying exactly that. He'd done it before and it always made Martin feel loved and uncomfortable in equal amounts, like being found naked in a room but kissed nevertheless.

They approached the house a little faster than they'd climbed up the hill leading there, and when they stood in front of the door, Martin struggled to separate the right key from the ring. He cherished that little delay before the inevitable, but soon enough they were stepping inside, shoulders colliding as Tim had none of the courtesy of Jon's to queue for entry. They simply squeezed through both at once, and it seemed to amuse Tim somewhat, or at least he was once more grinning devilishly when he kicked off his shoes, as if Martin couldn't see that. When Martin lifted his gaze, Jon was there - and yes, this was one of the times he wondered just how much Jon had looked into him under the pretense of just making sure that he was alright, but he didn't look guilty, which soothed Martin's suspicions somewhat. He was very bad at hiding his bad habits when it came to looking Martin in the eye afterwards.

"I made some tea," Jon announced.

"I'm - not going to blame you for anything, but your timing seems incredibly suspicious," Martin pointed out.

Jon shrugged.  
"I felt like it was necessary. I promise I didn't look - I just got a feeling."

"Fine."

Martin moved out of Tim's way; he was getting more and more comfortable moving inside the house, and now he passed Martin with his hands spread on both sides, fingertips moving along the wall and the bookcases to measure distance and direction. Jon didn't move out of his way, and Tim's fingers found his arm and turned to a soft palm over his shoulder that then dragged over his chest, and as Martin looked Jon in the eye, he suffocated a smile as Tim passed him by. He shook his head, then walked up to Martin.

"Talk to me," he said quietly when they were alone.

"About what?"

"Whatever's bothering you. I can tell."

Martin sighed.  
"A lot of things, really. That's what the tea's for, right?"

Jon shrugged.  
"I'm offering you a chance to talk to me alone," he clarified, and Martin looked away for a moment.

"We really have to do something about - you know. His _hunger_. I found out that - while we've been all but ignoring it like we have a choice in the matter, he's been doing little things here and there to strangers, and - I can't live with that, honestly. I mean I - I can, he's not _hurting_ anyone per se, Jon, he's just... making people uncomfortable. But I know now that he's feeling it hard and we have to do something, or this'll get worse."

When he lifted his gaze, Jon was peering at him with a closed expression.  
"I don't mean to sound callous," Jon said then, his words slow and carefully chosen, "but that could be a good thing. It means he can control himself. I was worried... that maybe he couldn't. After what he did to you especially."

Martin made an inconclusive sound.  
"I guess? Still, it's... we have to find something for him to do. Do you think we could, you know, drag him along for a hunt?"

"I'm starting to think we don't have an alternative," Jon confessed, "I have a lead on the Dark that could get us somewhere. I promise to look into it more tomorrow; it's Saturday, but I can do this without the staff. It's not like anyone will tell me to go home, and I'll have the place to myself so I can focus."

Martin nodded. He lifted his hand to stroke Jon's cheek and then the side of his arm all the way to his wrist, feeling the little pits and bumps of his scars through the sweater he was wearing, exactly where he expected them and remembered them being. It was comforting, all these little things that he knew about Jon, and he stepped closer and hugged him just to feel his scent envelop him.

"I love you," he said softly, and Jon made a content, low sound against him.

"Come," Jon said then as Martin pulled back, "Let's... drink some tea and have this talk. It's been long enough."

In a few minutes, Martin's heart was pounding and he couldn't calm himself down, not even with a sip of Earl Grey here and there, not with Jon's proximity, not with anything. He _hated_ absolutions, and this felt like one; a crossroads that he couldn't turn back from again, and he wasn't sure which would be worse, that Jon would pick a direction for him or that he'd leave it to Martin to choose. Either one felt like a decision he didn't want made. He sat down on the sofa and pulled his legs up on it, his feet swallowed by the knitted socks he was wearing that turned around and tightened around his ankles as he dragged them over the cushions. Tim hesitated; he had trouble navigating the living room with a cup in his hand and Martin couldn't blame him, so after he'd straightened his socks again, he placed his tea on the table and stood up to lead Tim over to the sofa. Then he dropped back down on it himself, pulling his feet as far away from Tim as possible - he didn't want to give the impression that he wanted to be particularly close to him. He didn't want to _admit_ it, not in front of Jon. Lying a little was better, wasn't it? Especially now. It _had_ to be.

Jon himself came in last, and to Martin's surprise, he didn't sink into the armchair left unoccupied beside them. Instead, he sat down on the corner of the low table, leaving little space between the three of them.

"Tim?" he said first and without much delay. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Tim replied in a part-surprised, part-annoyed growl, "Why?"

"Bad enough to follow us into a den of evil?"

Tim squinted; he barely sipped his tea and then licked the liquid off his lips.  
"Like you did when you found me?" he asked.

Jon nodded. Martin kicked him gently.  
"Yes," he said after a short moment that had consisted of him looking incredulously at Martin for an explanation before it dawned to him, "This one's smaller. From what I gather it... could have some people in it, but there's more going on than that."

"So... what do you guys do with people?" Tim asked, his voice analytical and intrigued, not judgemental. Not yet.

Jon hesitated, so Martin took up the turn for him.  
"We usually try to, you know, be careful not to kill them. They're - they're _people_ , so it's different. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes," Jon filled in for him, "it can't be helped."

"So what you're telling me is that I'm housemates with a serial killer couple," Tim translated, "Neat. Alright. Okay. You've escalated, I get that. Remember when we were arguing about _one_ murder before? How many has it been now?"

"Three," Jon told him in a colourless voice. "We've killed three people."

"O-kay," Tim replied, pulling his knees closer to his body again. "I'm just not going to say anything to that."

"To be fair," Martin said hesitantly, "one of them was holding a Leitner that was eating him alive and there was _nothing_ we could do to stop it - one of them was coming at me with a gun, and one of them was summoning an... an entity. That one in the middle was... it was my fault. I know I'm... without me, Jon would probably be doing a cleaner job. Heh. I just..."

"Martin," Jon said gently, "You're the only reason why I haven't been seriously injured doing this yet. Or - or died."

"Can you die?" Tim asked, his voice back to curious.

Jon nodded. Martin resisted the urge to kick him again.  
"I believe so," Jon replied. "Which means that you can also die."

"I've figured as much."

When Jon nodded for the third time, Martin couldn't help but roll his eyes.  
"Jon?" he prodded at him quietly, "He can't _see_ you nodding at him. Dumbass."

He smiled as Jon closed his eyes, huffed in embarrassed amusement, and then made a sound of submission.

"Don't worry about it," Tim said, his gaze turned in Martin's direction, "I'm kind of used to him just ignoring me by now. Is that what he's actually doing? Nodding?"

"Yeah."

"I'm..." Jon started, but Tim waved his words off.

"Don't be sorry again, or I swear," he muttered and sipped his tea again. Martin was starting to think all three of them were equally nervous, and that it really wasn't him alone at all.

"So... what are we here for, exactly?" he asked then - he wanted it to be over with. "Not to talk about our body count, I believe, anyway."

His heart had leaped in his throat over his own words and he curled up his toes so tightly that his skin prickled. His hands were shaking a little as he held his cup that he'd by then rescued from being knocked off the table by Jon's shifting body, and... God, he felt like this was an end. It wasn't an end, he reminded himself firmly; nothing was _ending_ now. Jon wasn't going to leave him over this. They'd been more distant over the week, but... that's what happened when Jon was _thinking_ , it wasn't the first time. That was what he feared the most, Martin realised; that somehow they would end over this, that he'd be left with his greed and his stupidity and... and that would be it. They'd lasted an apocalypse, but Tim? Tim could be the hill that they'd die on. He wanted to laugh at that. He wanted to be able to laugh at that.

"Well... first, I would like to ask if he's alright with joining us," Jon returned to the original question, "I don't see an alternative as to how we are going to pull you through, Tim. It's... either you feed or you don't."

"Martin told you, huh."

"Martin told me you've been practicing, yes."

Tim hesitated.  
"Fine," he said then, "I'm a liability, but if you think that won't get us all killed - yeah. I want to stop feeling sick."

"With your ability to see the auras of those who are channeling the Fears... maybe you'll be of more use than you think against the Dark," Jon pointed out. "It can be... difficult for us. The Dark is resistant to the Eye, and Martin - well."

" _I'm_ the resident liability," Martin confirmed, and Jon looked at him apologetically.

"He won't let me go alone," Jon said then with a warm chuckle.

"I won't sit back here and wonder if I could have saved you, should something happen to you," Martin bristled, and Jon reached out his hand to touch his shin, the only part of him that he could comfortably reach from the corner of the table he was occupying.

"It should be a smaller den; just a hideout. At least - that's the picture I got from the statement given," Jon reassured them.

Tim readjusted, but Martin couldn't read his expression. His fingers were tracing the shape of his cup like it was a small sleeping animal that he was petting.

"So, then," Jon started again and leaned back with a sigh - it was his turn to sip at his tea, and then he placed the cup beside him, and Martin noticed that his hands were shaking. "About the question you both know I've been avoiding."

Martin wanted to throw up. Tim continued caressing his drink like it didn't even matter to him either way, and Martin wished he'd show a single emotion - just so that he wouldn't feel so alone and so _guilty_ facing Jon like he was, squirming and cheeks flaring with red.

"Tim," Jon said hesitantly, "I know what Martin's told me, but - I'd like to know... I'd like to hear it from you."

"Then ask?" Tim replied with the corner of his mouth poking up.

"Fine. What do you want with Martin?"

Martin... wriggled, curled up tighter, and positively drowned his mouth in a gulp of tea that was a bit too much to swallow in one go. He _hated_ this. He hated it with a burning passion. And Tim just shrugged.

"I like him," he said nonchalantly, "I like his company, I like being around him, I think it'd be great if we could, you know, act on what's obviously there between us. I mean no offense by that, by the way; I positively _do not care_ that you two are together. I don't want to get inbetween you or anything. In fact, from what I've seen, well, _heard_ , you two are disgustingly good for each other. I don't want to ruin it. But I also want to kiss him, so, yeah; do with that what you will."

Martin could barely bring himself to look at Jon, but it was worse not knowing his reaction, so Martin turned his gaze up to him and saw him looking down, drawing little shapes on the table with his fingertip, and his eyes were looking at something that Martin couldn't see there. Then, as if feeling Martin's gaze on his skin, Jon turned to him and their eyes met and he smiled a little, and that smile soothed the pain inside Martin's chest. It was going to be alright, wasn't it? Somehow.

"Do you think you'd be happier that way?" Jon asked, his voice quiet and his eyes fixed upon Martin's.

Tim turned to him, too, the gesture more hesitant as he wasn't entirely certain who the question was aimed at.

"I'm not unhappy, Jon," Martin said firmly, "I've never been unhappy with you. Right now, what I really want is... for us all to be alright. However that will be, I need... I need _normal_ back in this house. I'm tired of escaping to work to be with you because when we're alone in here, you withdraw. I don't want you withdrawing like that forever. So if that's what's going to happen if I tell you yes? I won't. I want you happy too, Jon. If you can't be happy knowing about the way I feel for Tim then... then that's it."

"That doesn't exactly answer the question," Jon said with a crooked smile. "I asked if you'd be happier that way. You told me you're not unhappy. That's... not what I asked, Martin, though I'm glad, of course."

Martin grimaced and turned his gaze down.  
"Maybe? I don't know, Jon; I really hate talking about this. Yes, I guess - right now I constantly have to... think about how I am, how I act, what I do, what's alright and what's not, and I just... I'd like to just be able to... be, with both of you. But it isn't about just me, Jon. It's about you and it's about him, too. I think - I think Tim's made it clear what he wants."

"You'd hope," Tim chuckled.

"But what about you, Jon?"

Jon drew breath and his tongue flicked over his lower lip as he turned his gaze away.  
"I'm scared I'll make the wrong choice," he said then, slowly, "I've been thinking about this... I know it probably didn't look like it, but I was, I promise. What if I tell you you can go ahead with it, and then it'll hurt? What if I tell you you can't, and nothing changes? I don't feel _anything_ when I think of... I just feel nothing. But it's different to imagine it than to live with it. How do I tell how I'll feel then?"

"Jon, no offense, but you're making this more complicated than it needs to be. You don't have to decide now how you'll feel about it later - you can't know the future, well, as far as I know, anyway. So if you don't like it later, you just say _then_ that you don't like it," Tim stated with a shrug. "It's not the end of the world to change your mind, you know?"

Jon lifted his eyes to him, but he did so very slowly.  
"And that'd be it? You'd just be... fine with that."

"Isn't that how consent works? Tell me if I'm wrong," Tim said. "I'm not going fight you over your boyfriend, Jon. You two are working out. I don't know how long you've been working out but what it looks like to me is... it's going well. It seems healthy. I know, that's weird, _you_ being healthy? But I mean it. I'm the one coming into this, so if that doesn't work out, I think it's obvious which part is broken. I'll admit defeat, I'll take myself out of the equation, you two can move on and I'll find something else to focus on. I've had breakups before and I don't tend to leave a mess behind. I'm not here to fuck up a good thing and I'm not here to sabotage you. All I want is - well, what _he_ wants; the freedom to stop acting like there's nothing happening when there's a _lot_ we both wish would be."

Martin watched Jon, his head still bowed as he felt too awkward to just stare at him outright, but... he couldn't quite breathe right. And then Jon looked at him again, this time for a very long time without speaking before finally something seemed to deflate in him and he smiled timidly, giving Martin a small nod.

"Very well, then," he said quietly, "If I don't like it... I'll tell you. Until then, I suppose we'll give it a try."

"Are you... serious?" Martin asked, his voice barely a breathy gasp.

"Don't put it past me to call it off ten minutes from now," Jon chuckled wearily, "I just - I don't think I'm going to ever be more certain than I am now, not without giving you some kind of an answer. So - that would be it."

Martin turned his gaze to Tim and he held his breath for a moment before returning to Jon.  
"So we can just..."

"Do whatever you please," Jon sighed and spread his hands in a small gesture of defeat, "I'd like to know about it - if you'd rather have privacy, I... would like to know what you do with it. I don't need details, I - I just - I want to be included. I don't want to be left out of this side of you, Martin, and..."

"Speaking of being included," Tim spoke when Jon's words trailed off, "Do you want to be?"

Jon glanced at him and Martin could see him visibly blushing.  
"I have no interest," he said shortly, then swallowed and crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive manner.

Tim chuckled.  
"Too bad," he said, "By now I almost got into the thought."

The glance turned into a slow stare. Jon blinked, then turned away.  
"Either way, that's - that's it," he said then, stumbling over his words. "Do whatever you'd like. I'll let you know - if I change my mind. And... Martin, if..."

Martin perked up. Jon's words hadn't made him feel more at ease - in fact, he now felt positively electrified, his whole body sparking and tingling and it was almost as if he had a vibration somewhere deep inside of him that he could feel in his bones. He needed to run, or... shout, or do something else drastic; he wanted to jump and scream, or else wrestle something until he'd be out of breath. Instead he did nothing at all, just sat there, hair standing on end and his whole body tense.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to know before you sleep together. That's... so I can make myself comfortable somewhere else."

There was no escaping the way _both_ of them were looking at Martin, and Tim didn't need to be able to see to make his stare exactly as oppressive as Jon's was. Jon shyed away from it first, and Martin knew he felt uncomfortable; he watched his gaze turn to the windows and his fingers grasp at his shirt and rub at it soothingly, and without thinking, Martin got up from the sofa, sipped at his tea, planted the cup on the table and pulled Jon into him.

"We don't have to," he said seriously.

"As long as it doesn't involve me," Jon said in turn, his forehead pressing into Martin's stomach, "I don't want to stop you. I just - I want to know first."

"He'd be fine with it, Jon," Martin promised.

Jon shook his head.  
"Like I said... you're free to do what you want. This isn't about me. Don't make it about me; it should be between the two of you. All I need is a fair warning first."

Martin ran his hand through Jon's hair and leaned down to kiss his head.  
"Alright," he said very quietly, "Just tell me if you change your mind. I love you, Jon. I really do. I don't want to hurt you - even on accident. Even if you say it's okay."

Jon nodded.  
"I'll be alright, Martin."

Slowly, Martin pulled back; then he dropped on his knees before Jon and crossed his arms over his thighs, and he looked up into his eyes and smiled until Jon smiled back at him. Martin reached up to stroke his cheek.

"You're not always very good with words. I'm just worried," he said, and Jon huffed warmly.

"You mean - ever?" he replied softly, "No, Martin, but I promise to try this time. If there's a problem, I'll - I'll tell you."

Tim crossed his legs and let out a sound, his hand shifting across the distance between them until his fingertips brushed against Martin's shoulders. It seemed to satisfy him, and as he retreated his hand, Martin followed and fell back on the sofa.

"Anyway, it's a bit early for that," Martin breathed out with an awkward chuckle. "And I'm going to take a shower just to get out of this conversation now, if that's fine with you both. I need some time to think."

Jon straightened up, sipped his tea and breathed a small chuckle into it.  
"I think that'd be for the best - for all of us."

Tim licked his lips and slid deeper into the cushions. He seemed satisfied enough as Martin passed him by, but looking at him now made Martin a little dizzy in turn.


	11. Trust Fall

* * *

Dinner was peaceful, and mostly quiet; the rain was back, which didn’t surprise Tim given the season, but he appreciated it, more so in the midst of what felt like... not an _uncomfortable_ silence at all, but a silence nonetheless. At the same time he had to wonder whether the two of them would ever stop acting so awkward when he was in the room - if _Jon_ would ever get used to it, and if Martin would let himself live a little - so when he’d eaten, he made his way to the middle of the kitchen with his plate, where he was then met by Martin who gently but firmly took his dishes from him, and then he journeyed through the by now familiar rooms and up the stairs into his bedroom.

The stairs themselves were still difficult; each step was a careful measure of height and distance to ensure he didn’t stumble or skip one and fall, but he was managing, even without help now. And once on top of them, he found the guest bedroom easily enough. It was starting to feel like maybe living in a house wouldn’t be impossible: he had his new phone tucked in his pocket for emergencies, but he’d only once had to make a call to Martin in the middle of his work day, when he’d somehow taken a wrong turn and lost his outline of the house entirely. A video call had sorted it out for him, but he’d still spent the remaining day resting on the couch in the living room without budging for anything at all. He’d learned that it was sometimes impossibly exhausting to be blind - he was using so much energy just trying not to walk into things, trying to make sense of his surroundings, that even if he hadn’t felt hungover most of the time he was still tired almost nonstop, like he was carrying around a weight that never shifted from his shoulders. Still, progress was progress. He found his way today, and once safely in his own territory once more, he fell on the bed without another bruise.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, how long it was just him on his back with his eyes open or closed to the same distorted nothing with the sound of rain in his ears, but at some point he heard conversation and laughter from downstairs, and once again he felt like an outsider in the house, albeit a very comfortable one. He had his room, and... he was still just a visitor, a passer-by in the lives of the two men who really lived there. Even now. He wondered if that would ever change - or if he even wanted it to - but the resolution to the earlier conversation had nevertheless given the question a different tone. In this moment, he was almost satisfied, if not for the gnawing emptiness in his body that ate away at his ability to stay whole. He could feel parts of himself slowly decaying under that mask of humanity and the borrowed clothes that he wore as a disguise. Sometimes the seams under his human skin were easier to trace on his body... sometimes he couldn’t forget what he _really_ was at all. Pretending otherwise was wearing him thin, and it felt like being thirsty with no water in sight, day after day under an unforgiving sun. Was that sun the Stranger? His... his _god_ feeding on him now that he’d offered it nothing else for a feast.

A smile crossed his face. He wanted to laugh. Instead, he lifted a shaky hand and raised his middle finger at the ceiling.

”Fuck you,” he muttered before lowering it, ”for taking everything from me.”

Footsteps ascended the stairs, creaking at all the right spots, carelessly, without fearing to announce themselves. They took the direction of the guest bedroom, and Tim expected them to head for the office, but no; soon after there was a light knock on his door, and he made a sound of acknowledgement to it, climbing back up into a sitting position.

”Hey,” Martin called out a little breathlessly, and he hesitated in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside and closing it behind him. ”I thought I’d spend some time with you, you know, after - well, how do you... how are you?”

Tim chuckled.

”Great,” he lied, ”Never better. Honestly, I was surprised. That takes confidence. I never really thought Jon was all that confident under the shell.”

”He’s... not, not really,” Martin confirmed, ”but I think - when it comes to us and our relationship, we both have a _different_ confidence. Either way...”

He moved closer, and Tim straightened up a little. There was an electrified tension in the air and he could almost _taste_ Martin’s nerves, and they caught onto him easily, his heart picking up its pace within him. (Did he really even have one? Was it still inside him? He put the question off his mind. If not, then he didn’t want to know what _else_ was pounding inside his ribcage now.) He could feel Martin’s warmth on him, just barely but it was there so he was close, and then a touch of his hand on his cheek... it ran down his jaw to his ear, and then down his neck to his shoulder where it stayed, a light touch of three fingertips lingering over the part of his shoulder that wasn’t exposed by the wide collar of his shirt. In turn, Tim lifted his arms and turned his palms up, sliding them under Martin’s arms until his elbows were cupped by his palms and his fingers spread over the underside of his upper arms, and he held onto Martin with a gentle pressure to pull him closer; Martin took a step and a breath at once, the latter lingering in the air after he’d shifted onwards. His knee pressed into the mattress, and as it did, Tim closed his eyes. On his skin, Martin’s touch became... more; hands instead of fingers, one palm moving up to the back of his neck and the other’s back lifting his chin.

Martin kissed him.

It was a lingering thing, a questioning, shy touch that waited before connecting and then connected only ever so carefully, and Tim lifted his face to meet it, to brush their lips together more firmly, and Martin’s weight over the mattress grew as he leaned on and into him. Tim made him space on the bed, moving backwards until there was a ledge for Martin to climb on, and he did, one leg over the side of Tim's hip and the other stuck between his legs until Martin leaned down and pulled it up and over on the other side. His hips shifted over Tim’s lap and Tim chuckled warmly into the kiss that had never broken through the movement, and Martin breathed on him, separating their mouths but leaving between only the smallest of spaces.

”Am I too heavy?” he asked.

Tim shook his head - he had barely any weight on him at all, with most of it sitting over Martin’s knees pressing into the mattress on both sides of him. What he did have was warmth and closeness, both of which were making him feel drunk, his head void of any proper thought but the longing for the touch that had broken between them.

”You’re fine,” he replied breathlessly, lifting his hand to the back of Martin’s neck to coax him to return to the kiss. ”Come back.”

He found himself smiling when their lips joined again. Yep, this was fun; this was what he _needed_ , desperately, to keep him from drowning in the dark. Martin’s hold of him tightened, moved down his arms and then under them, and although he was still only carefully touching him there over his ribs, Tim adored the way he’d taken the move so early, really _holding_ him without shying away. In return, he moved his own hands to Martin’s waist, below where he remembered digging his fingers a week before - his touch dared to invade that space, too, and he felt Martin shiver.

”Still sore?” he asked gently into the kiss.

Martin nodded.

”A little,” he confirmed, and Tim withdrew his hand. ”Can I ask you something?”

”Do,” Tim replied.

Their noses brushed against each other, and Tim’s poked into Martin’s cheek and bent against it. He breathed him in for a moment before he noticed Martin’s fingers now tracing his scars - he knew the holes the maggots had eaten into him, and he felt Martin’s fingertips brush into them through his shirt, linger and then move to follow one of the ragged seams that kept him together. It caused him to jump a little: he hadn’t known that Martin could feel them, too.

”A bit of a turn-off, isn’t it?” he asked with a breathy chuckle.

Martin shook his head slowly.

”How do you choose what to show?” he asked his question in return.

”I don’t,” Tim admitted, ”I’m still not really sure how I do it. How I... change the way I look, I mean. How I pretend to be _human_.”

”I like them,” Martin said thoughtfully, ”The scars. Jon has them too. I guess it’s...”

”Familiar?” 

Martin nodded.

”It’s not that I want to remember,” he continued then, ”but I like the way I can, you know? All these marks... make the journey we’ve been on real. It’s not about... the pain or the horror on the way, but... about learning to know each other. The little things and - and the big things that got us where we are. Is that weird?”

”No,” Tim said with a shrug, ”I don’t _like_ them, but I don’t mind you finding something romantic in them either. I mean, good for me, right? Better than you hating them. So... does that still go for my patchwork body?”

He tried to say it lightly, jokingly, but he wasn’t sure if he managed. God, did he feel undesirable that way, with his mangled self showing through the cracks in the outerior. Martin was quiet for a moment again, his finger following one particular seam up Tim’s body to the side of his ribcage and from there over his chest where it appeared to fade into nothing again. Then he nodded: Tim could feel it against him.

”I guess that part makes me a little sad,” Martin said with a quiet laugh, ”to remember what you’ve been through and what you’re still going through now, but... I don’t mind it. I mean, I know what you are, what you _really_ are; I think I’ve seen you at your worst now. I can tell what’s inside. It doesn’t scare me, you know? I don’t need to forget about it to want to be near you.”

As if to emphasis, he pushed up closer, and Tim let him kiss him on the cheek and over his jaw before turning his own face to meet Martin's again and perhaps boldly pressing a lingering, slow kiss over his neck. Martin shivered, but Tim didn’t continue down from there but up instead, and his teeth took a hold of Martin's ear and he let the tip of his tongue drag over it before moving on and back to Martin's jaw and mouth, where he finally stopped. Martin’s hold of his sides vanished, and instead he brought his arms around Tim’s neck in an embrace, and their bodies were touching the whole way up from the hips now, and Tim wondered if Martin was getting his exercise in holding himself in that position with his whole body tense to keep balance.

”You, on the other hand, seem to have made it through largely unharmed,” Tim breathed onto him when the kiss broke again. ”Are mine the only scars on you now?”

”Not the only ones,” Martin said hesitantly, ”but probably the ones you’d notice first.”

The backs of his fingers caressed Tim’s neck and hair. Tim could feel him smiling, and he heard it in his breathing, but it seemed to be to some private thought of his, as he couldn’t trace its source to anything they'd spoken.

”You know, I don’t mind that either. It’s like I said - they just show where we come from, the things we’ve been through,” Martin finally said then.

It eased a knot in Tim’s stomach, and he nodded, feeling Martin relax against him likely out of exhaustion of keeping that pose for a longer while. He now rested more of his weight on Tim’s lap: it felt nice to feel him grow more comfortable there, more trusting. They kissed once more, but it went on for what felt like forever, lingering and changing from gentle and exploring to more passionate and almost _hungry_ before fading out to playful nipping, teeth on lips and little pecks on the corners of their mouths. 

”Would you like to listen to some music with me? It’s a nice, rainy day outside. I just - kind of want to be close to you but my knees are hurting,” Martin chuckled, shifting off of Tim’s body.

”That sounds nice.”

Martin’s hand took a hold of Tim’s shirt and he pulled him down with him, making just enough space for himself on the bed to not fall off it, although they only just barely fit there together if neither of them moved at all. He dug at his pocket for a moment, and then there was a silence as they both were lying still, side by side, with the rain against the window in the background. Finally, there was music; Martin adjusted the volume and placed his phone between them on the bed. Tim could feel his gaze but didn’t know where to look to answer it, so instead he closed his eyes and sought out his hand. Martin took a hold of his and held it tightly for a moment, and he smiled again, letting out a soft, quiet sound of contentness and joy.

”I really, _really_ like you,” he said then, his voice barely audible. ”Is that bad?”

Tim shook his head and held his hand tighter in turn. He didn’t want to say it yet, but by now he knew that he was falling, too.  
  


* * *

  
Saturday; Jon gazed out of the window with his legs crossed on the bed. Waking up at seven in the morning was nothing unusual to him even on the weekends - he was used to being early, and he enjoyed the silence before the world woke up, the sleepiness that proved that most people were not morning people at all but forced into the role by a society that preferred the lifestyle of a minority, a minority to which Jon himself did _not_ belong. It was just a habit, reinforced by his sleepless sleep, but it did give him this one gift at least, the silent stillness of his bedroom with early morning light breaking through the sheer curtains and the gap between them, and Martin’s quiet breathing beside him. Jon turned to look at him, his curled-up shape underneath the covers and his arm bent under his pillow, and he couldn’t help smiling. After all that they’d been through... this was the only thing Jon could have asked for in the end. 

A creak from outside the bedroom made him break out of his private space, this solitary moment he was so used to building for himself on days like this. Was he not awake alone? He listened carefully, and yes, he could hear footsteps from the corridor, heading for the stairs. With a quiet huff he let his feet down on the floor and stood up; he crossed the room to Martin’s side of the bed and pressed a kiss on his cheek, and if he woke up to it, it was only for a few seconds at best, not even enough to get a word out but a sound instead that felt very small against the vastness of the quiet of the room. Jon smiled as he turned for the door and entered the corridor.

”Tim?” he called out as soon as the door closed behind him. His eyes sought out the entry to the stairway and he saw the man there, leaning to the wall above the stairs; Tim had turned his head somewhat towards the sound of his voice.

”Hey,” he replied with a small smile before turning back.

Jon joined him there. He’d never really spent any time in that little space between the floors, and he wondered what exactly Tim was doing there now. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

”It’s early,” Jon noted.

”It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep early when you don’t, you know, see anything anyway. Funnily enough I still dream in visuals. It’s - rather depressing waking up and remembering, if I’m honest with you.”

”Do you know where you are?”

”Above the stairs,” Tim said with a shrug, ”I was going to go down, but -”  
His voice faded to a little laugh and he shook his head.  
”Really,” he continued then, ”It’s not the first time I chicken out right here. I keep imagining the fall, you know? How I have to explain my broken leg to you when I wake you up at seven in the morning on a Saturday.”

”Would you like me to help you down?”

”Please.”

Jon breathed out warmly and took a hold of Tim’s arm. He guided him down onto the first step and the rest followed more easily: he was growing in confidence and his movements were less restricted now, and the climb down that had before taken up to a full minute was done well under one now. Jon didn’t stop there, however, but kept leading him onwards to the kitchen, and Tim didn’t resist but followed in silence: when they stopped next to the kitchen table, he placed his hands upon its surface and dropped down into a chair with a sigh of relief.

”Tea? Coffee?” Jon asked, parting from him and turning for the rest of the kitchen.

”You’re drinking coffee, right? Just make me the same,” Tim said with a shrug, ”Thanks.”

Jon nodded, then thought of Martin and his judging gaze, and cleared his throat: ”Alright.”

”Mm,” Tim replied; his face was tilted towards the window, and out of a whim Jon returned to him and the table just to lean over it and open the window a little bit. A small smile crossed Tim’s face and he lowered his head and closed his eyes as Jon turned to prepare their breakfast.

He was getting used to this. It had been almost two weeks now, and Tim’s presence in their home was becoming expected rather than temporary - he’d worked the man into his routines, now breakfast was for three instead of two and the laundry too, and every now and then he would be there to lead Tim up or down the stairs or help him find his phone when he’d placed it somewhere he couldn’t locate again. Jon was good at finding misplaced items in his own house, it turned out - Martin was good about his things, and Jon kept his own almost perfectly in order, but Tim had a more difficult time finding places for his belongings that he could later track back to. Not that he had that many of them to begin with: so far his collection of personal items was limited to the phone that Jon had been glad to discover he was nearly inseparable from, a toothbrush and a few pairs of socks and underwear, but nevertheless it was a collection that he had to take care of and without being able to see, it didn’t seem like the simplest task on earth anymore. Perhaps most importantly, though, Jon was growing _comfortable_ with his presence in the house. It didn’t put him on edge as it had before anymore, and maybe it had a lot to do with the way he no longer had to leave Martin alone with Tim or abandon his duties at the Institute to be with them, to keep Martin _safe_ with him, but he was welcoming this change, this... growing trust, was it? 

Still, a certain heaviness followed him from the day before to this morning, and he wasn’t pretending it wasn’t there. He’d changed things and he wasn’t sure if it was for the better yet, or even if he'd hurt at Martin’s absent smile as the man had left Tim’s bedroom the night before and headed downstairs to read a book like this was the new normal. He wasn’t sure if he was surprised, or disappointed perhaps, about the lackluster nature of his own reaction; did he want to be more possessive, more jealous than he was? He turned a look towards Tim as he turned on the coffee maker, and watched him smile just as absently at the open window as Martin had been smiling the evening before. Jon’s chest ached, but he wasn’t sure why.

”Was it... good for you? Last night,” he asked then, although he was uncertain if it was any of his business.

Tim didn’t seem offended by the question, however. Instead, he now tilted his head towards Jon and opened his opaque eyes just a little bit, his features smoothing into a calm expression.

”Martin’s taste in music is nice,” he replied inconclusively. ”He shared some of his favourite songs with me and we talked about music in general, about the concerts we’ve been to - you know.”

Jon lowered his gaze and let out a choked breath, and he had to stop for a moment - for Martin’s sake - to examine what was making him feel so tight and what had his hair standing on end in response to those words. He still couldn't identify the exact source of it all, but while searching he discovered with a wave of affection for Martin the memories of doing exactly that with him what felt like an eternity ago, all those lazy afternoons on a cabin bed in the countryside in that little moment they'd been afforded when things hadn't been half bad, and which he now lingered on for a moment.

”He’s a good kisser,” Tim added then, and the sentence seemed to end as a question, as if he was looking for the kind of an answer that Jon had expected out of him. ”Nothing much happened, really. So - how does that make you feel? Regretting it all yet?”

At those words, yes, that choked feeling grew and tinged with pain for a moment, but it was passing, and Jon let himself relax before answering.

”No,” he said, calmly enough, ”Not yet.”  
Then he swallowed and lifted his hand to rub at his own shoulder, trying to coax his muscles to release their grip of his throat and chest.  
”He is a good kisser,” he continued thoughtfully after the moment had passed, ”and - I’ve never been loved the way he’s loved me. What it really comes down to, Tim, is - I hope you know not to hurt him. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me, and all I want is that he’s happy, too; it’s felt like... since you’ve been with us, he has been. Happier, that is. And - I hope you know how important that is. How much he deserves it.”

Tim huffed. He turned his gaze down and while he was mulling it over or trying not to give Jon a snarky answer, whichever was the cause for the delay, Jon poured them both coffees and brought them to the table.

”Thanks,” Tim said as Jon pressed the cup against his hand, then continued: ”I’m not just here to fuck him and leave him, you know that, right? I don’t know where you got that impression, but I’m not as big of a prick as you seem to think. I care about him too. Maybe I don’t love him the same way you do, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. I haven’t been to the end of the world with him, Jon, but I still don’t want him _hurt_.”

”Do you? Love him,” Jon asked as he sat down at the table opposite to Tim.

He didn’t expect the kind of a soft, timid smile that crossed Tim’s lips in response. Tim was quick to drop his gaze again and hide his face, and if Jon wasn’t completely wrong, he was _hiding it_ indeed - Jon had to focus his gaze much harder on his features to fully tell them apart, and he could feel a chill rushing through his body in response.

”I’m not going to lie to you, Jon, I... I think I’m getting there, yeah,” Tim replied, his voice splitting strangely, shivering and unreadable.

Jon leaned back in his seat and sipped his coffee.

”Do you realise you’re doing that?”

”I do,” Tim replied. ”If you mean... this.”

He became even more unreadable, his voice almost unrecognisable as he spoke, and then he flickered back into being who Jon _expected_ him to be, and he pulled his head up with a crooked smile.

”It’s easier, you know? Not being me.”

Jon nodded. He kept doing that, didn’t he? _Nodding._ Martin was right, Tim had no way of telling. 

”Yes, I... understand,” he corrected himself. His head was buzzing; he could _feel_ the Watcher inside him twisting at the unknowable in front of it. It wasn’t a good feeling. ”I know the last time we tried, it wasn’t... pleasant for anybody, but I have to ask - knowing that you’ll be joining us to stop whatever is happening with the Dark - would you mind practicing with me again?”

”I’m a little suspicious of the timing, Jon,” Tim chuckled tensely, ”Last two times I’ve tried to _practice_ it with either of you I nearly ended up dead for it, and now I’m dating your boyfriend. Can I trust you not to take me out? I mean, you _can_ \- take me out, that is, just in the _fun_ way, not the _dead_ way.”

Jon swallowed. Martin had said it first - he wasn’t good at handling the flirting, but neither was Jon.

”I’m not going to ’take you out’,” he said a little sharply, ”But you’re right, I - I am aware of that. It just feels that maybe you’ve gained some more control over your powers since the last time. Still, I’m not letting you at Martin again. I can take quite a lot, but...”

”I won’t do it against Martin either,” Tim said firmly in return, ”I’m not hurting him again.”

It took a painful effort for Jon to stop himself from nodding, and instead, he let out a sound of agreement.

”But I expect you have less apprehensions about hurting _me_ ,” he concluded, and Tim laughed.

”Jon, really.”

”I don’t mean to grow a rift between us again,” Jon promised. ”But I know your anger hasn’t vanished just because you said you’d give me a chance.”

”What if this has been my play all along?” Tim asked and leaned back like Jon was, his fingers stroking his cup that he’d emptied to a half by then. ”I was just waiting for you to grow comfortable, and now... now I steal your boyfriend and murder you.”

”I think Martin would have second thoughts about kissing you after that,” Jon said dryly.

”Fair enough,” Tim grinned. ”I won’t get territorial if you won’t, promise.”

Jon chuckled.

”So you’ll practice with me?” he asked then.

Tim nodded.  
”Sure thing. I can’t do much, though; I’m about two seconds away from a splitting headache at any given moment right about now.”

”You should be able to... well, feed from me,” Jon sighed, ”It’ll make you feel a little bit better.”

”I sure hope so.”  
  


* * *

Martin crossed his legs and rested his cup of tea in the middle. He felt nervous, but at least Tim looked more nervous than him; Jon, on the other hand, looked like stone. He’d set himself across the room from Tim and his hands were in fists, and he was breathing deep and steady with his eyes closed, and Martin let his gaze linger on him for a while.

”Are you two _sure_ about this?” he asked then.

Jon shook his head and glanced at him with a crooked smile. Tim shrugged.

”He wanted this,” he said, nodding vaguely in Jon’s direction. ”If one of us dies - well, in my case, you don’t really have to alert anyone, they already know. If he dies, then I’m sorry for your loss, and maybe we can work something out.”

Martin sighed.

”Just do it, alright? Don’t break anything. No wrestling in my sitting room,” he told them wearily, ”I’ll be here, I’ll call it if either of you does something... remarkably stupid.”

Jon looked tense when their eyes met again, but Martin smiled at him weakly and shrugged.

”Are you ready?” Jon asked, and Martin wasn’t sure which one of them the question was aimed at.

”As ready as I’ll be,” he replied anyway. ”Can’t wait to be the innocent bystander casualty. Yay?”

Tim chuckled. ”I’m ready.”

”Go.”

The room vibrated. It was far from the first time that Martin felt it happening and by now he’d known to expect it, the way that everything was suddenly something else, something he couldn’t quite recognise; how it all centered on Tim, and when he looked up at him he couldn’t see him anymore. Instead of the man he knew - whom he had kissed the night before, and who’d held him gently as he’d sat on his lap - there stood an unrecognisable being, tall and thin and broken, arms spreading slowly with the palms facing the ceiling and featureless face aimed at nothing and both him and Jon at once. Martin could barely feel Jon there only a short distance away from him as the air thickened between them and his skin crawled and he was cold all over, and he dug himself deeper into the sofa, his hands squeezing the cup of tea that now felt as wrong and strange as everything else in the room he spent so much time in and now couldn’t call his own anymore.

Jon bristled; he stood taller, his head tilted downwards but his eyes remained sharp upon Tim’s shape, and he stepped forwards despite the dreadful energy that was flowing towards him.

”Challenge me,” he breathed out in a low voice.

”That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Challenge,” the being in front of him spoke, and it did _not_ sound like Tim; in fact, his voice was as unrecognisable as his face was, and it made Martin jump, his breath hitching. ”Wouldn’t it be nice if someone could do that?”

”Mm,” Jon let out, and as calm as he sounded, Martin couldn’t see one part of him that was fully relaxed. ”I won’t lie, Tim, it’s been a while since I felt contested.”

He stepped closer again; Tim’s shape shivered, he leaned down and Martin had to close his eyes when he split again, his body opening to spawn a second pair of arms, doll-like and plastic and so _sharp_ that he could vividly remember those same hard fingertips digging into his ribs. But Tim wasn’t looking at him now. He was _focused_ on Jon, and Martin knew that although he was certain Tim could feel him by the dread that pooled in his stomach and froze his limbs, he couldn’t _see_ him there and therefore he was in no trouble for the time being. He wasn’t Tim's prey. Jon was.

”You’re in good control,” Jon said in a quiet tone, examining him, but now Martin could feel him again, that odd sense of being known and seen and observed conflicting with the unknowable room. ”Much better than before.”

”Does it disappoint you?”

Jon chuckled.

”A little bit, maybe,” he said, ”I like the sincerity you have in this form, Tim. Or is it me?”

”Both.”

”So the Watcher does have some power over you, then. Curious.”

Martin wanted to stop him when he reached out for Tim. His fingers stopped just in front of him, and Tim responded by lifting his human arm towards Jon in turn; the stitches between the parts of his skin that had been sewed together were visible now, and so were the parts where the stitches were too far apart, leaving gaps through which dark flesh or something else entirely could be seen. Martin shivered again as he watched their hands meet in the middle - he’d expected something else, but instead, Tim’s fingers intertwined with Jon’s, and Jon held his hand in turn.

”Is it difficult?” Jon asked quietly, his aura positively wavering with the Watcher’s power.

”Yes.”

”What do you want to do?”

”I hate every part of you. I want to rip it apart. I want to rearrange you. I want to destroy you - like I was destroyed. Like _you_ destroyed me.”

”Do you blame me for it?”

”As much as I blame myself. Without you, none of this would have ever happened.”

Jon nodded.

”I forgive you,” he said, and Tim let out a hollow laugh.

The room was returning to its usual state, and Martin could _recognise_ him again, although he wasn’t - _nothing_ was back to normal yet.

”And Martin?” Jon asked, and Tim turned to Martin's direction, his grip of Jon’s hand visibly tightening. Then he shook his head.

”No,” Tim said, ”Nothing.”

Jon sighed with relief. Their hands parted.

”Come back.”

Martin could breathe again. The rug wasn’t one with the floor anymore, and the walls weren’t shaking and breathing and shivering, and Tim looked small in his oversized white shirt and dark jeans, seamless and with a single pair of arms remaining to him.

”Don’t read me like that,” Tim breathed out, ”Ever again.”

”Sorry,” Jon replied quietly, ”It’s the gentlest thing I can do to attack you.”

”I prefer the pain. Next time just hurt me, Jon. Not that. Ever again.”

Jon hesitated.

”The truth is, I was curious,” he admitted then. ”Perhaps I abused the opportunity.”

”You have no right,” Tim snarled.

”I know. But I refuse to hurt you for no reason, Tim, so - it’s your choice. If you want to continue...” Jon spoke, letting his voice trail into nothing, and the unspoken question hung heavy between them for some time.

”Fine,” Tim finally said then, his tense posture relaxing a little despite the sharp tone of his voice. ”But you need to choose your questions carefully, Jon; trust isn’t a one-way street.”

Jon smiled tensely. He looked at Martin for a moment before nodding his head and sighing.

”Again, then,” he said and stepped back, but not quite as far away as he’d started the first time around.

Martin found himself gripping his cup in the lack of anything better to hold onto. He remembered what it had felt like, though, when it had changed before. How different it had been, and how even the heat of the drink inside, which by now had significantly subsided, had felt feverish and wrong against his lap. Still, he gripped it and tried to focus on his breathing - he noticed that Jon was doing the same, and once more their eyes met, and he smiled at Jon and nodded at him in return.

The room shifted. This time the change came as if everything was boiling, with bubbles brewing underneath the floor and walls until it wasn't the living room anymore, it was someplace else, someplace that Martin couldn't really remember what it had been before. Was he supposed to feel safe here? He held onto his memory of himself, at least, focusing on the way his very being was slipping away from him. He was used to that. The Lonely was a master at amnesia, and he'd been through it many times before; the Stranger could make him feel alien to himself, but it couldn't do what the Lonely did, it couldn't make him lose himself like that. On the other hand, even within the Lonely, at least what was around him wasn't like a fever dream. At least he could look around and know that where he was was a place, even if it was nowhere, even if it was inside his own head. Now he wasn't so sure - if this was a place, and he assumed it had once been, then it could as well have been created by someone or something else, and it had nothing to do with him. He leaned down his head and brought his tea to his lips. It seemed important. This was worse than what had come before, so much worse, and the room was still bubbling and even Jon... Jon looked different when Martin looked at him. He wasn't entirely sure Jon had always looked like that. His shape seemed to be shifting, merging with the room, and when he stepped forwards, the sound of his feet on the ground was like he was stepping in mud but there was no mud, certainly, just the floor, right? 

Martin let out a sound, but he couldn't recognise his own voice.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I deserve the anger," Jon said, his voice shifting from here to there around Martin, who wanted to close his eyes but it was somehow _important_ that he didn't. "I've always ignored you, ignored what you needed, and focused on myself and the things that I wanted, the things I cared about, and you weren't included. I put you in this mess. I pulled you, specifically, as my assistant. You weren't like Martin who was put in there by Elias - you weren't part of the big plan. You had no part in it before _I_ decided that I wanted to ruin your life."

It was difficult to look in Tim's direction. (That was his name, wasn't it? The thing standing there right now didn't seem to _have_ a name.) The room was crashing waves and boiling floors and it all centered on him like he was a crack in reality, whatever it might have once been, and his body was shifting from human to something else, gaps in his skin flaring like gills underwater, and Martin couldn't focus his eyes on him at all. He felt choked when he tried to, like all air was out of his lungs and someone had outright punched him in the gut, and the longer he tried, the more he lost grasp on where he was, and who everyone in the room was. That was Jon... Jon was there. Jon, with his aura of _knowing_ , he knew that man, at least. He'd been through hell and back with that man. Of course he knew Jon. Even if he couldn't _recognise_ Jon, he recognised his power, at least... he couldn't forget how it felt like, how piercing the invisible eyes about him were, and how, if he'd turned those eyes on him, Martin would have had nowhere to turn or hide because there was _nowhere_ to hide from the Eye... Martin wanted to cry. It was either or for him, wasn't it? The Stranger or the Watcher. He was nothing to them, and he sipped his tea. It tasted salty, not sweet. 

Innocent bystander casualty indeed.

"You deserve it," a voice said, so broken apart it sounded like it was spoken by a shattered voice box breathed into by multiple different individuals, "You never treated me as anything but a resource, something you could use until I fucking _died_ for it. Did you even mourn me?"

Jon shifted; his hand was fisted.  
"I did," he said quietly, "I never wanted - I felt guilty, Tim, because I knew without me none of that would have happened. I tried to stop you. Maybe I didn't try hard enough, but I... I tried. I didn't want you to suffer. I _never_ wanted you to suffer. I didn't want to lose you like we'd lost Sasha, but I couldn't stop you from going down that path."

"Maybe if you'd ever considered just being _nice_ to me, Jon, maybe it would have been different. But you were so fucking hung up in your own bullshit - it never even occurred to you to look around and consider anybody else's feelings, now did it?"

"You made it rather hard," Jon continued in his quiet voice, "To reach out to you, to be there for you. You didn't want me there. Me, least of all. I don't know how many times the others tried - I assume they did their best to reach out to you, and I assume that you pushed them away, too."

"I was hurting," Tim said, one tone in his voice breaking apart from the rest like a whip.

"We were _all_ hurting. Even I was - I didn't do any of it because I _wanted_ to be an insufferable, paranoid piece of - I didn't know how else to get through. I'm sorry it cost you so much in the end. I didn't know any better. If I could have protected you, I would have. I would have tried harder. But I didn't even know how to protect myself." Jon breathed for a moment. "You're resisting."

"I am," Tim said, and even as he spoke, another voice was laughing. "How's that make you feel?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted, "I'm not used to it."

For a moment, Martin felt like a fist had travelled through his chest and pulled out his heart - he couldn't breathe from the shockwave of power that ran through this hellscape that the room he assumed he'd once known, even loved, had turned into. It made him want to gag, but his body was paralyzed; Jon was the source of the feeling, of whatever was cutting Martin into small slices from within, all that was him out in the open to be searched through at will, and there was _nothing_ he could do to resist it.

"Hurt me," Jon said then, his voice stable and firm, "I need to know if you can stop."

"Do you know how much I want to?" Tim asked. "I told you already - you pulled that one right out of me. I want to make you into something new, Jon, something you won't ever fucking recognise again. Like they did to me. Look at me."  
He laughed: " _Look_ at me. What am I? Tell me, Jon. You know everything, don't you?"

Jon shook his head.  
"I don't know. You're..." he chuckled wearily. "Unknowable. Other."

"And I won't hurt you," Tim stated firmly, "unless you hurt me first. So what'll it be? Will you hurt me first?"

"Didn't I already? How many times has it been, Tim?" Jon asked calmly.

The room went through another shockwave, and Martin doubled over, his chin resting over the edge of his cup. He let out a gasp and tried to resist either of the powers struggling within him, but what was _he_ , really? Nothing. No one. The Eye knew it. The Stranger knew it. He was just...

"Come on, Jon. One more time. For old times' sake. Make me know myself, yeah?"

"No," Jon sighed, "But I can tell you how you're making me feel. Would you like to try that?"

"Show me."

... prey. Martin pulled himself back up. It took enormous effort, but he managed; the focus of at least one power was off him now, entirely wrapped around another being in the room. He could breathe. He could... _almost_ hide what he was feeling again. It was Jon - Jon's focus had shifted. Still, the earth was shaking when he next spoke. Martin couldn't help but wonder where either of them was summoning this sort of power into it. Where was it coming from? From them? From him? He felt exhausted and afraid.

"I love him," Jon said, his voice steady, low and forceful as he nodded towards Martin, "And I can't even tell who he is, what his name was. I can see him, but I can't recognise him. I know I'm hurting him, but I can't stop, because I've lost touch on the one thing that grounds me in this world, the one person who got me through the time that I didn't get you through. Did I know he was there? Hardly. I blamed him for caring about me. I didn't want him there. And at the same time - I don't know myself now any better than I know the man I barely remember I'm in love with. What am I? I don't know. All I know is that I'm twisted and broken inside. That's all I am. Shattered pieces with too much power and too much hunger to contain. Maybe I want you to hurt me because I deserve it. I say I don't want to hurt you, but the truth is... I do. Every part of you is an antithesis to every piece of me. It doesn't offend me, it _threatens_ me, your very existence threatens mine, your presence here tells me that mine is undone. I know _everything_ , that's what I am, but I can't know you."

There was very little distance between them anymore: barely a step, little enough to cross by extending an arm and Jon was doing exactly that, but this time, he didn't stop. He pressed his hand over Tim's shoulder and Tim's entire shape shivered out of view and then back like a badly focused stereoscopic image.

"You have... remarkable control over it," Jon said breathlessly, "Why is that? Where did it come from?"

Tim's hand crossed the space between them, too, but it took Martin a moment to realise that the arm reaching was one of those with sharp, pointed fingers at the end. He was lifting Jon's shirt, exposing his side, and Martin couldn't help but let out a small sound to that - he felt _terrified_ watching those claws near something so vulnerable, reaching for such a tender part of the man he loved, but... he couldn't move. Couldn't stop him. The claws turned inwards and pressed into Jon's flesh, and Jon just stood there, letting it happen.

Was that... trust?

Martin put his feet down; his tea spilled, he could feel the wetness around his hand and his trousers but he didn't care. The cup landed heavy on what was a surface of some kind between him and them. He moved. They both looked at him like they'd only now realised he was _there_ to begin with, but they'd been aware this whole time, hadn't they? Had they just thought he would remain a passive witness to whatever would come? Firmly, _decisively_ , Martin took a hold of Tim's wrist. It was hard and smooth and Martin pulled it away from Jon, and then he pressed his other hand onto Jon's chest and pushed him further away.

"Enough," he said breathlessly, "Enough of this. Both of you."

The room stabilized. Tim let out a small, breathless laugh and stumbled backwards and onto his knees; Jon shook, his gaze lowered, every breath a laboured gasp against the shudders that ran through him. Martin let his hand slide down Jon's arm and took his hand, if only for a moment, and he shifted closer to him and embraced him firmly with the love and warmth and relief that he felt at being able to hold him again. Then he separated from him and turned to Tim, who was shaking just the same, and he dropped on his knees on the floor to be with him next. He brushed the man's hair aside from his face and examined him, head tilted down to his level until he was certain he was _alright_ at least - exhausted, yes, straining, yes, but still _alright_ \- and with that he stood up again.

"You're both just the worst," Martin announced dryly, "Would now be a good time to sit down? I don't care where you do it, the floor is nice now that it isn't _alive_ anymore - thanks, Tim - and I'm going to get you both something to eat. You look like hell. I _feel_ like hell. I think we all need a nice break."

Jon nodded stiffly, and then, against Martin's expectations, he did indeed just sit down on the floor. Opposite to him Tim did the same, falling from his crouched pose to a cross-legged sitting pose instead. He chuckled breathlessly.

"How did I do, boss?" he asked.

Jon breathed out - it could have been a chuckle, too, but Martin wasn't sure.  
"Very well."


	12. Closeness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for the gang that would rather not engage with sexually explicit text: first part of the chapter is good to go, the rest is skippable. Have a good one!

* * *

Tim leaned his head to the wall behind. He felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and ecstasy, both of which lingered well after Jon had gotten up and gone to get ready to leave for the night - he'd said it was important, that he'd promised to do his research today, but either way the truth was that Tim was glad he would leave. Their little sparring session had left him _itching_ for something and the closer he was to Jon, the worse that itch was, and he just couldn't figure out how to scratch it; it felt like his fingertips were still tingling with the desire to tear into him that Tim hoped he'd appeared to contain so well. In reality he'd never felt in control, not once, not even as he'd held his hands on Jon's bare skin and known in his heart that he wasn't going to harm him despite the lingering ache of his own reflected fears inside him. He'd felt shaken and small and too large at once, and he'd felt different inside every little piece of him that had been put together so haphazardly by the servants of the Stranger, few of which felt his own at all and that all seemed to have their own will that he had to fight against to do what _he_ desired. He wanted to be better than just a sum of those parts, and... maybe he'd done enough to prove it tonight. Maybe he'd won something, for himself or from Jon; trust was a lot to ask for, but he dared to hope for it nevertheless. Jon had never trusted him. The thought of it was... exciting in a way. The potential of building something between them that had always seemed out of reach, impossible; he'd grown to like Jon as his ally, he realised. It was better than being enemies. And through Martin, perhaps he'd seen glimpses of something within Jon that had changed his formerly so firm opinion of who he was and what he was like. There was a different side to him, wasn't there? 

And maybe, just _maybe_ , speaking his mind so sincerely had helped too. It wasn't that Jon's powers had left him feeling better - they had a habit of making him feel much, much _worse_ about the things he spoke about, like each word was clawing open wounds that he'd worked hard to close or at least conceal, but... there was raw honesty there that he didn't achieve without help. Something else had loosened up inside him and he cherished the feeling of being rid of that knot now, or at least feeling as if its weight had halved, and he was now lighter as a whole in return for the pain of speaking up. 

Still, it was easier to breathe when Jon finally closed the door behind him. He heard the quiet words exchanged between him and Martin, then the shuffling of an embrace or a kiss, and then the sweet, sharp sound of a lock opening, then closing, and the following silence of a house one occupant down from the count before. And underneath there, Tim felt... excited? Nervous? It was the first time he was _alone_ with Martin since - and they'd have a few hours all to themselves, if Martin just would still want to spend them with him. Tim couldn't fault him if he didn't; after all, he'd stood witness to everything that had taken place just moments earlier here, and despite the sweet treat he'd offered Tim to get his blood sugar up from the exertion, it didn't mean he couldn't have second thoughts about them now. Tim didn't believe so, however; Martin's touch, his words and the tones of his voice had been ever as gentle as before, even though he'd sounded exhausted, too. And now he was coming back into the living room, where Tim still sat collapsed against the wall in a place he hadn't yet fully mapped out - there was a surface next to him, a drawer perhaps or another damn bookcase, but he didn't have the energy to investigate it further. He'd never been to this wall before. It didn't lead to anywhere in particular, and he was much more acquainted with the walls that had doors and doorways in them. Whatever was here had never been important before. Now he'd made it his home, this little corner between the couch and this wooden box that he didn't care enough about to figure out.

He listened to Martin's footsteps that carried him first upstairs, then around there for a little while until he stopped, and the moments ticked by without a sound, silently counting to the one when he moved again and returned downstairs. He went to the kitchen next and poured some water, perhaps to drink, and once more the house was silent in the absence of sounds while he stood there. Tim closed his eyes. A certain calmness was setting in, and he recognised it as the absence of the way he'd felt out of it recently; he didn't feel sick now, he wasn't dizzy and his thoughts made sense to him again. He was almost ready to climb up from the floor, but... for what reason, exactly? He liked it there. It wasn't like he was in any hurry to be someplace else. That was his life now, wasn't it? He wasn't going _anywhere._

Martin made his way back into the living room, then took aim at Tim's corner and walked to him. He crouched in front of him, his hand alerting Tim to his presence by gently stroking over his arm, and then he dropped down to sit there with him.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, and Tim nodded calmly.

"Quite," he admitted.

"You're still on the floor. It's - a bit alarming, really."

"I like it here. It's a nice floor."

Martin chuckled. He pulled himself next to Tim and leaned his back to the wall, too, and then he rested his head over Tim's shoulder and let out a quiet breath.

"You really don't mind it, do you?" Tim asked him then. "The extra arms and whatever else I've got going for me. I can't really tell. It's not like I've looked into a mirror lately."

Martin shook his head, or rather, he brushed his unshaven chin against Tim's shoulder and sighed. Tim let him pick his hand up, and he ran his thumb over the back of Martin's hand as Martin held it, lightly but like he was content to just be there with no hesitation or resentments that Tim could perceive in the gesture. 

"It's a lot, you know?" Martin said then. "But I've seen - I've seen worse things, Tim. Things that wanted to harm me, things that actually wanted to kill me. Not just things that were confused and had anger issues from back before like you. Can I say that, or is that mean?"

"I mean, it's... accurate," Tim huffed dryly.

Martin shrugged.  
"Anyway, I'm not going to pretend it's not scary. That - that you aren't scary when you're... I guess what you really are? Is that what that is? I'm not going to pretend I don't _prefer_ my boyfriend looking nice and human and, you know, safe. But it's not what you are and that's _fine_ , Tim, I knew that before I got myself into all of this. I made the choice to look past that and give you a chance and you really haven't let me down so far. We've all struggled, it's been one hell of a ride here, and that doesn't scare me. So yeah, I _am_ scared, but I'm also _not_ scared. I think I wouldn't be coming back every time if seeing you use your powers really made me think twice about you, really."

"Your boyfriend," Tim repeated, weighting the words on his tongue. Then he let out a small, warm laugh. "I like that."

"Speaking of," Martin continued then, "I need to know - did you ever think this would happen? Me and you. Did you _ever_ think...? I mean, before all of this."

Tim shook his head.  
"Not really. I mean, we were working together, I try not to trap myself in weird circumstances if things get tough in a relationship. Which was great in retrospect, because had I _had_ relationships inside the Institute, it's not like one of us could have just moved on from there afterwards, you know? So - kudos to me. No, I wasn't considering it back then. Besides, it was pretty obvious you had it bad for Jon."

"Was it?" Martin sighed, and Tim laughed again.

"Yeah? Everybody knew it," he said. "You weren't as smooth about it as you seem to think you were."

"I know I wasn't," Martin chuckled, but he did sound embarrassed, "I wanted _him_ to know, and I guess I wasn't exactly subtle about it to anybody else, either. But I wasn't thinking about that back then. All I really was thinking about was - well, Jon, and surviving the day. And whatever else was pressing at the time. Jonah - I mean, Elias - sometimes. Peter Lukas. You probably don't know much about that, do you? Tim, it's... it's been a long time. I'm just happy that we're here right now. I'm happy that _you're_ here. You asked Jon if he mourned you and... I don't know, for what it's worth, I did. I missed you a lot. The way you used to make everyone laugh, the way you brightened up the room when you came in. Back before. And then it was just _gone_ , and I was - for a while, I was really, _really_ alone, Tim. Without you and without Jon and - and I didn't ever think Jon really liked me all that much. He made it very clear that he didn't, at first, and... then the Unknowing happened, and I lost both you and him at the same time. So I came back to work because I had to and it was just... empty. All the time."

Tim moved his arm over Martin's shoulders and held him closer, and Martin sighed and relaxed into him, his body heat warming Tim up where he realised he'd been quite chilly before.

"Are things better now?" he asked, although the question seemed to have an obvious answer. Still, he wanted to hear it, and... he wanted to hear that _he_ was making it better.

"Yeah," Martin said, seeking out Tim's other hand to hold instead. "I think so. I mean, objectively, things are going great, but - it's not always that easy. I've got scars and Jon's got a lot of them, and now you're here, and you've got your own to look after. We're all messes, Tim. Every single one of us. But I want to believe that we're better together, and... I was so happy to see you again, back in that attic. I knew you were in a terrible place and I was afraid you'd changed in ways that... and Jon thought it wasn't even you to begin with. You know the Stranger, what it can do to people, how it can change itself, and - you know, I really didn't want to hear that from him, or from anyone. That I was looking at some kind of a replacement, a bait, because just seeing you made me _so_ happy, it was like some of the wounds I was carrying around that were still bleeding just weren't there anymore. And I guess that brings me to... you _are_ you, right? You're the same Tim Stoker that I knew in the archives before, that I worked with. Not like - not like the Sasha that wasn't Sasha for a year, who I'd loved because I thought it was someone that I should love, but it was actually someone who wanted to harm me. I just - I know it's a stupid question, right? If you were, you wouldn't tell me. That's another thing the Stranger does. But still, I just... you _are_ you, right?"

Tim tilted his head until he felt his cheek pressing into Martin's hair.  
"Yeah," he said quietly, "It's me. As far as I know, anyway, I'm... the same. And - I guess - not even a little bit the same. It's a hard question. Who am I? What am I? I don't know. But I know I - I don't want any harm to you. My nature wants it, obviously, but _I_ don't, and I still have agency. So whatever I am, I don't want to hurt you, Martin. I would like to kiss you, though, if you'd have that instead."

Martin laughed.  
"I think I need it. Tell me, Tim..."

"Mm?"  
Tim had reached his hand around Martin's shoulder, the backs of his fingers now touching his jaw to lift his head.

"Why do you like me? I guess in - in general, but... I mean like this. It's just - I never thought I was in your league."

"First of all, quite bold of you to assume that I have high standards," Tim chuckled, his nose pressing against Martin's forehead. "I have exceptionally _low_ standards; I'd place you somewhere on the higher end of the kinds of people I've dated in the past. A lot of it was just for fun, you know? You're not just for fun. I haven't really figured it out yet, but I think what stands out the most about you is that you're kind and selfless, and you showed me care when I needed it the most and had nobody there to stand up for me. You stood up against _Jon_ for me, and I think that's quite attractive, really. Remember all those times nobody sided with me? I needed that, and then you came along. Of course the alternative is that I'd be dead now, but really, that's semantics; what matters is that you found value in me that I couldn't see, and if that isn't sexy, then I don't know what is. But it's not just - it's not all just selfish and about the things that you're giving me, you know? You smell good, you _taste_ good..."

He lowered his head down until he could coax Martin into the kiss he'd asked for. And he did taste good, the lingering freshness of a glass of water still on his lips when he kissed Tim back, and his body pressed against Tim's and his presence was overwhelming against the isolation that Tim hadn't even realised he'd built up around himself again. It had been there to protect him from Jon and Jon's _knowing_ , but it had lingered, and now Martin was breaking through it and it stole his breath away, and he laughed into the kiss, his hand cupping Martin's ear and pulling at it teasingly.

"You're easy to like, Martin."

"I think everyone in my life would disagree, starting from..." Martin sighed. "Starting from my own mother. I've never felt _easy_ to like, you know? Quite the contrary. I'm used to people hating my guts even though I don't think I've done much to deserve it."

"I never hated your guts, if that helps any," Tim admitted, "Maybe I didn't find you particularly _remarkable_ before; you were a friend at work, I never gave it much thought beyond that. Now that I've got the time, though... you do seem quite remarkable, in fact."

"Don't," Martin sighed, but he sounded like he might have been blushing. "I'm learning I'm really weak to that and I _hate_ it."

"Weak to what?" Tim asked innocently; he moved his nose down along Martin's cheek and nipped at his ear with his teeth, then ran the tip of his tongue along its side. He expected Martin to push him away, but he didn't - instead, he tilted his head to give him more space, and Tim dared to kiss his neck next, even if the kiss was gentle and barely more than an implication.

"You," Martin let out breathlessly, the tone of his voice tinted with the pleasure of being touched, "the way you're making fun of me. The way you're... flirting. I don't get it. I'm so - it makes me feel like I can't help this."

"Help what?" Tim continued pestering him, his breath lingering over Martin's neck and ear before he kissed him again over his hairline.

" _Stop_ it," Martin laughed, and his hand separated from Tim's and he pushed it against his chest instead, kneading his shirt there like a cat. "You're awful. I hate you."

"Mm-mm. I bet you do."

He was easy to down on the floor: there was no resistance, no hesitation in the manner that Martin bent underneath Tim. Tim climbed over him, his lips now pressing quite boldly over his neck, and his hands found Martin's and pushed them above his head, and for some time they lay there with his lips and tongue marking the side of Martin's neck and jaw, and there was something undeniably magical about the way Martin whimpered and pressed his hips up on instinct. It sent shivers down Tim's spine and he wondered if it was too early for them, but... Martin didn't seem too opposed to the thought. In fact, he seemed to be playing along pretty nicely.

"Do you think this is enough?" Tim asked him, his mouth deliberately pressed against Martin's ear.

Martin shivered.  
"You know, I - did ask Jon," he admitted, and the heat on his face was so undeniable now that Tim could feel it against his own. "If he's - alright if we - you know."

"I don't know. Do I?"

"Shut _up_ ," Martin gasped, and Tim didn't expect it but he found himself on his back on the floor soon enough; Martin had strength to him, enough to down him in an instant, leaving Tim no time to complain or put up a fight. And once he was pinned, Martin used quite a lot of his weight to keep Tim right there, and his words were hissed through an anxious grin: " _Do_ you know? Because I'm going to say it if you keep playing dumb."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tim sighed, lifting his chin to expose his own neck to Martin, who'd by then firmly settled on top of him and found his wrists just as Tim had done to him previously; their roles were reversed, and Tim felt like purring there, his whole body responding to Martin's closeness to him. "Couldn't possibly know."

Martin growled. He pressed closer to him and brushed his nose over Tim's cheek until his mouth was against his ear.  
"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?" he asked, his voice breathy and excited.

Tim hadn't expected the way it made him shiver from head to toe. He laughed, then nuzzled his head up and against Martin's.  
"Yes," he answered quietly, "I do."  
  


* * *

  
Martin couldn't remember when he'd last been this downright nervous in a way that wasn't explicitly bad, just anxious and _excited_. He'd been sitting on the edge of the guest bedroom bed for a while wondering if he had the wrong idea of it - of what would happen between them next, and how it would play out - when Tim appeared back in the doorway, his hair wet and dripping over his bare shoulders and chest, and Martin could have melted to the way the man was smiling, his gaze turned down and away from Martin yet still that little smile was reserved just for him to see. And God, Tim had to know how good he looked to rest his weight like that in the doorway; maybe he'd been more confident, more comfortable with himself before and maybe all his talk about how he barely knew himself now was true, but even if so, Martin couldn't spot that in the way he presented himself there. His jeans hung low on his hips and he'd lost his shirt somewhere on the way back from the bath, and Martin felt like he couldn't breathe when he got up from the bed and crossed the room to him. His hands were shaking when he reached out to Tim, and perhaps he hadn't made his arrival all too obvious, as his touch made Tim jump and shiver and he let out a small, tense laugh before relaxing back into Martin's touch. His hand moved into Martin's hair and he pulled him over, and Martin rested his hands on his waist and let them move down over his exposed hips as their bodies collided in the middle; Tim pressed his mouth over Martin's jaw and spoke against him, words low, barely more audible or legible than a large cat's purring.

"How do you want this?" he asked, his words followed by a lingering kiss. "How do you want _me_."

Martin let himself lean into him and he closed his eyes to the touch and the vibrations of Tim's voice, and his hair was standing on end in the most pleasant of ways, with currents rushing through his spine up and down and up and down again. His right hand moved forwards onto Tim's lower back, and he found himself rather anxious to speak the words; he really might have read the cues wrong, so maybe what he expected wasn't what _Tim_ was expecting. Would that ruin the whole mood? Nonsense, Martin told himself; even if he'd somehow messed it all up, they'd figure it out together. Still, he didn't manage to sound quite as confident as he would have liked when he answered: maybe he expected Tim to laugh at him like he was joking, or else just reject the idea as absurd.

"I liked you the way you were downstairs," he breathed out despite his nerves, "On your back and under me."

Tim didn't laugh. Instead his back curved in and his body pressed more firmly into Martin's, and his voice shivered when he spoke.  
"Mm-hm? You liked that."

"Yeah."

To Martin's relief, Tim brushed his face against the side of his head and turned to kiss his neck instead of making any comment beyond those words; he seemed content with it, content with the direction they were heading in, and Martin could barely think from the way his lips were making him feel. His hands, too; how long had it been since someone had touched Martin this way? Years; he'd never expected it from Jon, but he hadn't really thought that he'd missed it all that much either. Jon gave him everything he needed in other ways, and yet this was... intoxicating, breath-taking, immediate in a way that he could barely describe to himself. Jon's love was slow-burning and constant and reliable and always, always loyal - Martin was now quickly learning that Tim's was very different, much more urgent and needy, and instead of being steady it came to him in bursts that were exhilarating and terrifying at once. 

Tim stole Martin's hand away from his body and moved past him, his other hand taking measure of the space around them. He knew his way through the room well enough that it didn't seem to bother him that he couldn't see it, and he made it to the bed easily enough, but Martin was surprised when he didn't land his weight on it or pull Martin to it or anything of the kind. Instead, he pulled off the duvet and threw it on the floor with a teasing grin on his face, and he kicked it around until it wasn't in a heap anymore.

"It's softer than the floor," he made note, and Martin choked on his own breath. "What? The bed's too small, and you said you wanted me like you had me downstairs. Well... here you go. Take what you want."

Tim let go of Martin's hand and lowered himself on his knees in front of him. Martin felt his own hand shaking (and _how_ ) as he reached it into Tim's wet hair, and he stroked him for a moment longer to steady himself, but Tim leaned into the touch and let him linger in it until he was ready to move on. Martin brought his other hand down and ran his fingers along Tim's ear to his jaw and Martin pushed his head up, only implicitly but finding that the gesture was followed without question. Tim looked... really, really pretty down there. The breath that escaped Martin was both heavy and nearly inaudible at once, barely a gasp lost in the dark of the room illuminated by nothing but the lights from the corridor. Maybe they should have had more - maybe they'd _need_ more, and then Martin would need to get up from... whatever he could call the blanket on the floor, but right now? Right now, he just didn't want to leave. Instead, he let his hands follow Tim as he leaned forwards, his touch crawling up Martin's legs until it reached the hem of his shirt and moved it aside, and Martin closed his eyes and swallowed thickly as he felt Tim's fingers track down along the front of his trousers, easily popping open the button hiding away the zipper. His hand grew into a fist in Tim's hair and he tugged at it gently, then shifted from the spot he was holding and did the same again at another. He wanted to say something, but he really didn't know Tim well enough to find the right words, so he just kept petting him as he made his way through the zipper and pulled down Martin's trousers. They caught onto Martin's thighs and stuck there, partially encouraged by the way that he was bending his knee into them, and he breathed out a shiver and lowered his gaze to Tim again.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly at the implied question, his skin on goosebumps and crawling with electricity.

"If you'd like it, yeah."

Martin let out a small laugh and leaned his head back, his hand running once more through Tim's hair and the other letting go and falling back to his side to hold onto the waistband of his trousers. Sure, Tim couldn't see him, but he still felt really exposed and weird standing there like that. Then he hummed out a little sound, coaxing himself to relax. _It's fine._

"Yeah," he said breathlessly, "I'd like that. But before - if you'd wait just a moment."  
He readjusted himself and wriggled his fingers awkwardly into his crumpled pocket to fish out a square wrapper he'd hidden in there.  
"Let's just be safe, okay? I don't want to hurt you."

Tim let out a soft sound of acknowledgment as Martin moved to tear open the little package he was now holding; this wasn't a question, and he wasn't waiting for an answer.

"Alright, we're being responsible; I like that," Tim said with a crooked smile. "I _don't_ like being hurt. It's one of those things I've had quite enough of, really. So... appreciated."

Martin breathed out a tense, funny little breath as Tim's hands mapped out the waistband of his briefs. His gaze crawled towards the ceiling and he could barely hold his breath together, and he felt both cold and hot at once, and a deep sense of embarrasment was mixing together with the excitement he couldn't even begin to deny anymore. He _wanted_ this, but... God, he felt so awkward there. Even if Tim couldn't see him, he was _feeling_ him, and... Martin pressed his eyes closed and let out a sound at the fingers wrapping around his fully hard length. Tim was close enough that he could feel his breath on him, and his fingers followed Martin's to press the condom against the tip of his cock, and then bypassed Martin entirely to roll it down with enough experience that his blindness seemed to pose no challenge to him whatsoever. With a shaky hand, Martin reached down to double-check for him, but that was it - afterwards, he brought his hand back into Tim's hair and caressed him all the way from there to underneath his chin, finally taking the moment to look at him again just in time to see him lick his lips and grin, as if he'd _known_ that Martin had just turned his gaze down. Martin tugged at his hair with a breathy chuckle.

"I promise you," he said in that same soft tone from before, " _Nothing_ will hurt you tonight."

"That's really what I like about you, Martin," Tim spoke, his breath reflecting back from Martin's thigh. "You promise things like you mean them."

"I do mean -"  
Martin couldn't finish his sentence. Instead, his hand fisted into Tim's hair as he felt him going down on him - his mouth was warm and velvety even through the condom, and it had just enough pressure to make Martin's knees weak. He almost forgot to hold onto his trousers, which were eagerly still climbing down his legs; he tugged at them from the side and let out a choked little sound, to which Tim answered with a hum that vibrated through Martin's body in the best way possible.

He felt Tim's fingers wrap around his cock, guiding it just a little bit deeper into his mouth before he retreated again, slowly enough to let Martin come to terms with what was happening and perhaps for the sake of his own body still getting used to the sensation. Martin was glad about it, because if he hadn't been careful... well, it really _had_ been a long time since he'd last had sex. It was a wholly different thing to enjoying his body on his own - maybe Tim knew it, or felt it in the way he was already shivering against him, but he took it easy on Martin and gave him plenty of time to get himself back together before his pace grew faster and the hold of his mouth firmer. His tongue pressed against the underside of Martin's shaft and dragged shapes onto it, the tip teasing along the veins before softening into a flat, smooth surface under it, and he was quite eager to take in more every time he went back down, his mouth pressing closer and closer to his hand guiding the motions, lips holding firm. And this clearly wasn't the first time he'd done it; Martin had had a few blowjobs over the years, but damn - maybe it was the time, but this just could have been the best one he remembered. He could barely take on the ride without just letting go of himself right there and then; he really had to put conscious effort into holding himself back from the brink, and it had a surprised laugh bubbling somewhere in his chest that he couldn't let out from the sounds and breaths he was already making in its stead. He loved every second of it, but when Tim pulled back again, he was equally grateful for it: there was no way he would have been able to take much more than that.

Finally allowing the laugh to escape, he dropped on his knees in front of Tim and kissed his cheek, then his jaw and from there his neck, giving him very little time to recover. It didn't seem to be a problem: Tim took a hold of his shirt and wrestled it off him, and once it was somewhere on the floor beside them, Martin gripped his wrists again and pushed him down into the duvet. He didn't protest, and Martin was glad to see a smirk on him as he focused on kicking off the trousers he'd treasured before - right now, they didn't matter, being exposed didn't matter. He wanted to get closer instead - skin to skin - and even as he pressed Tim's wrists to the floor with one hand, he reached the other down to undo his belt. God, he was out of practice - it took so much more wrestling and trial and error than he was used to, but instead of being impatient, Tim made an effort to be helpful instead: he lifted his hips, pushed into Martin's touch and held himself steady as Martin figured out how to get him out of his jeans, and once undone, he was kicking them off as much as Martin was. And he was _beautiful_ underneath; all long, slender legs and sharp hips, his cock resting to the left over smooth, curly hair that climbed in a neat trail all the way up his belly. He had goosebumps too, perhaps from Martin's touch or else the cool air touching his bare skin, but it was all beyond attractive, and Martin lowered himself down to kiss him over his collarbones and then his chest and belly, finally releasing his hands as he moved down his body. 

"All good?" he asked, leaning his chin against the trail of hair over Tim's lower abdomen.

Tim's fingers moved into his hair and he took a moment to comb through it before nodding and letting out a sound of agreement. Martin pressed another kiss where his mouth would land and then pulled himself back up, making his way to kiss Tim's mouth instead. For some time they were tangled up in each other that way, hands travelling the other's body and touching everywhere that was within reach, exploring and growing familiar with the ways they wanted to touch and be touched. Martin rested himself between Tim's legs and let their bodies meet there, his cock pressing beside Tim's, and he felt Tim lifting his hips again to greet him there and the pressure felt incredible. Shivering, Martin hid his face in the pit of Tim's neck and smiled, and that smile was hard to kill.

When he did come out of there again, it was to reach for the trousers he'd discarded. Tim made a small sound in his absence, his hand reaching over to touch Martin as he dug through the fabric to find his other pocket and the little bottle of lube he'd shoved there. It really was tiny, and half empty, but he hadn't exactly planned to use it on anybody else and he only needed so much for himself. The same could have been said for the condom he'd dug up; it was leftovers from years ago when he'd still planned for a different kind of a relationship, but even if it wasn't quite within its best-before date anymore, it had to be better than nothing. Right?

"You still want me and all?" he asked with a crooked smile, his heart pounding against his ribs now.

"Still want you and all," Tim confirmed.

"You know, I... didn't think we'd match," Martin said with a little laugh as he popped the bottle open and spread some of its contents over his fingers. "People often get the wrong idea about me."

"Yeah, well, what can I say - I'm a bottom all the way. I like it here," Tim chuckled, stretching his arms above his head and letting himself back down on the duvet with a soft thud. "You're not telling me you thought we'd have to fight it out?"

Martin shrugged, realising too late that Tim had no way of knowing. He huffed warmly as he moved back down over him, his hand trailing along Tim's body down to his hips, asking for permission.

"I wasn't sure if you'd let me do it," he said honestly, "Do... _you_. But like you said, I like it here, too."

"Perfect," Tim said warmly, his knee climbing over to touch Martin's side.

It was permission enough, and more than just that: it was... inviting - Martin couldn't hold back the smirk on his face as he brushed his hand down along Tim's body and between his thighs, his fingertips seeking entrance until he found it, the slick lube over his skin already warm as he pressed his fingers down against Tim's flesh. He made no effort to enter him, just rubbed the lube over him, coaxing his muscles to relax around his touch before moving any further. There was little resistance: he could feel Tim's breathing tune to his touches, his body learning his moves and easing into them, and in the end the way he slipped in his first finger was almost accidental in how smooth the transition was from a teasing touch to penetration. He held it there as he pulled himself down Tim's body, planting small kisses on his way down and enjoying each shiver and sound and shock of tension that his touches caused, until he was down at his hips; there, he pressed one more kiss over the side of Tim's cock before pulling up with a smile to catch his breath, and he held his eyes closed for a moment to bring himself back together. Tim had his hand up in his own hair, which by now was starting to look a little less wet - the duvet underneath would not be so, Martin thought distantly as he pressed his palm against Tim's abdomen and held it there lightly, barely moving it down as anything more than an implication.

"Would you like me to touch you?" he asked, and the response came in the form of eager hips moving against his finger pressed inside, bucking up to try and catch his free hand. Martin couldn't help but laugh; he moved his hand up and over Tim's chest before retreating it all the way down to his hips again. "Alright, alright, I get it."

"Bastard," Tim mumbled, but if he was going to elaborate, he never could as Martin took a hold of his cock and gave it a few teasing strokes. Instead, he let out a whimper and his hands darted down to the duvet which he gripped, gathering it from over the rug and the floor into another heap around his body. He laughed, but it was a sound trapped within the sharpness of his breath, and Martin _adored_ it, adored every sound that he made and the way his muscles all but gripped his finger from what had barely been an effort made on his part before he finally pressed another one in.

"Someone's a bit sensitive," he commented softly, a lingering grin on his face.

"Shut up. Do you know how long it has been?"

"Probably not as long as it's been for me," Martin replied in a pretend-calm voice: the truth was, he was on the brink of shaking, his heart still racing in his chest and his breath hitching in his throat. He _loved_ this, every second of it, and as he pressed his two fingers deeper into Tim's body, for a moment he was sure he'd lose it from just the reaction he got from him in return.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been with someone so... sensitive, or that's how Tim seemed now; just that one thrust with Martin's hand on his cock, stroking up and down in slow, smooth movements, was enough to have him arching his back with his neck exposed and lips parting, tongue flicking over the very edge of his lower lip, the pink tip barely visible in the dim lighting before it was gone again. He had blush on his face and for a moment Martin wondered what he was really like underneath the illusion he wore for a skin, and how terrifying this all would have been if he _hadn't_ appeared so human, but despite the chill the thought gave him, it didn't make him less eager to continue. Tim was warm, and he was _alive_ under Martin's touch, and that's really all that mattered. And no matter the fact that he couldn't exactly rely on Tim's word on it for obvious enough reasons, he couldn't find a reason to believe he'd been lying about being himself either, so - really, what did any of it matter? Martin _trusted_ him, for better or worse, and he was beautiful now, and if underneath it all he was patched together with nothing but fear keeping him alive, wasn't Jon just the same? He loved them both anyway, for who they were, for who they had been and who they'd grown to be since. It didn't bother him, even if maybe it should have. Martin smiled warmly, lowering his head and closing his eyes. His fist around Tim's cock tightened and he had him tensing up in response with a low, whiny growl escaping him, and he dragged his touch up and then all the way down over his shaft, enjoying every vibration that ran through the other man's body at that stimulation.

Then he pulled away from him; his fingers felt cold after the heat of Tim's flesh around them, but this was just for a moment as he reached for the bed and picked a throw pillow off the end of it. Tim's hand had separated from the duvet and his fingers were trailing over Martin's body, questioning without words, and Martin gave him a touch over the side of his belly before taking a firm hold of his hips and slipping the pillow under him. Tim held himself up on his toes for a bit before relaxing over the support underneath his back with a little sigh of comfort and relief, and Martin thrust his knees a little bit further now that there was more space for them beneath Tim's thighs.

"Comfortable?" he asked, hand returning over Tim's cock and taking a light hold of it with his fingers running over its length as if to remind them both where he'd been before this little detour.

"Quite," Tim assured him, lifting one arm under his head and breathing in deep before he tucked his knee back up against his belly and set his other foot a little further apart from Martin, leaving very little question as to what he was still waiting for.

Martin let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh and stretched his back, taking his time to do absolutely nothing with the space offered to him but keep his hands where they were, one still stroking his lover languidly, the other leaning to the ground by the fingertips. In response, Tim let out another sound and stretched his neck, his hair falling into a halo around his head on the duvet, and he reached his free hand down his body, fingers trailing over his skin until he found Martin's hand, and he took a hold of it and wrapped it more tightly around his cock, and Martin let him move them both up and down and up again, tugging skin over the sensitive, wet tip and then down once more, exposing it to the dim light casting from behind. The view was erotic enough that Martin quite quickly had enough of his own game - he let go for just a little while, leaving Tim to pleasure himself in long, slow movements, and he wet his fingers with more lube before bringing them down the man's body. Gently he pressed one fingertip against Tim's hole again, ran it around his hot flesh and then pressed it in, further than he'd had the two before but there was little resistance: Tim was good at relaxing at the right times, good at tensing up at others, seemingly effortlessly aiding Martin deeper with his own participation. The truth was... Martin couldn't _wait_ to feel that around his own flesh, but good sex took time, he'd learned that much over the years, and he wasn't about to rush this. Jon would know well enough when not to enter, and although that thought made Martin feel somewhat guilty, he cast it out of his mind.

_"I'll give you time,"_ Jon had told him before when Martin had stood there in the corridor with him, waiting for him to tie up his shoes, _"_ _You know I can keep myself busy."_

Besides, there was simple beauty in making Tim wait for it - beg for it really, it seemed like - and even though his heart had somewhat calmed down by now, Martin couldn't stop it aching whenever his partner's body moved in anticipation for his touch, whenever a pleasured expression crossed his face, and whenever he just looked like what he was getting was the best thing he'd ever had. Martin was already deep and he couldn't deny it now, and there was no other way to describe how he felt than _love_. He focused that feeling into the way he moved his finger inside Tim, then added another and teased with the third without letting it join the rest quite so quickly. Little bit at a time he worked the Tim's body open, his hand once more joining the man's own over his cock yet he gave him the lead instead, and Tim took it, wrapping Martin's fingers around himself exactly how he preferred them there, and he dictated the rhythm, the pressure and the speed of their movements over his body. He was smiling - Martin liked looking at that. It made him smile, too.

"You're pretty," he noted with a crooked smile.

"Don't make me remind you how _not_ pretty I can be," Tim deflected, and Martin scoffed.

"Not good with compliments, are you?"

"I'm at a disadvantage - you can see me. I can't see anything."

"Trust me," Martin laughed, "I _like_ what I'm seeing."

He entered the third finger, and for the first time he met some resistance; he slowed down his movements, gave Tim time to adjust to it, and his breathing made waves in his body, his chest and abdomen rising gently up, holding, then sinking back in a slow exhale. It didn't take him long to be relaxed again - Martin had to admire that. He'd tried being there in his place a few times, and it had never sat right with him at all. He just didn't like to be so... vulnerable, powerless; it made him feel claustrophobic and lazy, like he should have been doing more than offering everything that he was for another to touch. That was another thing; Tim knew how to do more than just lie back and take it. He was active, involved, and Martin had never mastered that either. Giving while giving up wasn't a thing that he was good at. What he _was_ good at, however, was just giving, and giving his everything at that; he let his fingers loosen around Tim's shaft and made his way up his body instead, bringing their lips together as he started moving his fingers inside him again, and it wasn't hard to find what he was looking for - really, the spot seemed to introduce itself to him rather than the other way around. Tim jumped, huffed a laugh against Martin's lips, and Martin could feel him _shaking_ under his touch as he put pressure into the way he was touching him inside. He planted a kiss on the corner of Tim's mouth before moving to kiss his neck instead, their bodies pressed together and Tim's other knee now up against Martin's side just the same as the other, and they were holding onto him, pressing into his sides and trembling ever so slightly as he kept moving between them.

Martin nearly stopped when Tim lifted his hand and landed both his elbows into the duvet, pulling himself up and towards him; his movements slowed and he stayed there for a little bit to wait, but all Tim did was nip at his ear with his teeth and breathe into it with a smile on him, his nose brushing into Martin's hair.

"I want you to have me," he said, his voice barely more than another breath. "I'm ready for it."

Then he laughed - Martin knew he hadn’t missed the way his entire body tensed with arousal to the words, and truth be told, he found it rather funny himself. Still his cheeks burned afterwards, and Tim's touch over his skin only made the shivers worse. Carefully he let his fingers out, cold air catching onto them before he planted them in the duvet and hid them there, and Tim lifted his hips to press them against his, leaning back down onto their makeshift nest for a better angle. Martin caught him by the hip and ran his dry hand over it, then down his thigh spread wide to his side, and he let himself calm down for a little while, afraid that he'd be all but overwhelmed with the man's presence if he didn't allow himself to get used to the thought of... of _having_ him. God, he hated that phrase because of the way it now made him feel, how lost it had him in his own anticipation and the warmth of the body on top of his legs. He barely felt the hard floor beneath his knees when he bent over, moving his arm underneath Tim's body and his other hand onto his own cock. He was grateful now for the condom - the tight ring around his shaft was keeping him from coming too close to the edge from anticipation alone, like he'd turned into a damn teenager all over again. This wasn't nearly the first time he was sleeping with a man, but... hell if it didn't feel like it all of a sudden. His other hand made its way up past Tim's shoulder blades and over to his shoulder and neck from behind, and he gave him a few caresses with the sides of his index- and middle fingers, breathing slowly to stop himself from feeling so dizzy and shaky, and he chuckled and shook his head at the end of that little exercise, his grip tightening around his cock.

"Alright," he breathed out, "And remember what I said, okay? I'm not going to hurt you. Tell me if it's uncomfortable. Tell me if anything's wrong."

Tim nodded, his eyes closed and lips still parted; his cheeks were a bright shade of red, too, as far as Martin could tell in the weak lighting. Martin pushed against him, adjusted his legs underneath him and kissed him again where he could reach, and for one more time he took the bottle of lube from the floor beside them and fumbled it open with one hand. He took his time to coat himself with the slippery gel, but once it was all over and warm to touch he discarded the bottle and took a deep breath that ended in a nervous chuckle. Tim lifted his leg up and rolled his ankle - it made a snapping sound that evidently made him quite satisfied, and Martin shook his head to himself as Tim lowered his foot over his back and nudged him forwards. Tim's hand found its way to his face, a little clumsily as he didn't know exactly where to look, but the prod of his fingertips was gentle nevertheless as he reached to stroke Martin's cheek. He kept caressing Martin as he pressed himself against the warm, tight flesh keeping them separate: if Martin had felt intoxicated before then now he might have as well been drunk. Adrenaline was mixing with all the good things in his blood and as he pushed forwards, feeling the tip of his cock enter Tim underneath him, he let out a small gasp and dug his nails into the side of Tim's neck - Tim didn't seem to mind, as a warm breath escaped him and he smiled, but for a moment his body was tense and Martin rested himself there, undeniably glad for the excuse to pace himself, too. He continued again when Tim's hands settled on his shoulders, pulling him forwards in a careful gesture. They joined slowly, Martin mostly holding his breath and Tim controlling his like he was learning it all over again, but once their hips were touching they embraced, cheek to cheek and lips searching the other's hair and jaw and neck for places to kiss, and their breaths were heavy and unsteady, even Tim's, and more so once Martin dared to move inside him for the first time. 

It felt heavenly, just tight enough to give Martin the kind of pleasure that knocked his breath right out of him, but not tight enough to make him afraid he was going to tear something up or otherwise hurt Tim. He kept moving slowly, hands busy holding his partner close, and Tim's teeth were now _biting_ into his neck and he knew he was leaving marks there. God... when had he last had a mark like that? He smiled, panting as he rocked into Tim's hips. He'd been much younger then. Wilder, if that could be said about him at all. He'd never been particularly wild, had he? But...

"Ow," he mumbled into Tim's hair, turned his head against him and bit him on the ear. 

In gratitude, Tim turned his nails into Martin's back and dragged stripes over his spine and side. His hips jumped up and pressed closer to Martin's, his body eating up the length Martin had left between them so as to not force too much into him at once - he didn't seem to care much about that.

"I want you," Tim breathed heavily against Martin's neck, then bit it again, belly lifting up to Martin's and back arching and a muffled moan breaking between their bodies.

Martin traded the bite of his teeth for the press of his lips and kissed him through that moan, all over his neck and the curve of his jaw and then his mouth when the sound that he hadn't wanted to interrupt was silent again.

"I'm right here," he promised; "Right here."


End file.
